Flip the Script
by winter machine
Summary: An exploration of particular episodes of Grey's in which Derek and Addison could have truly started to reconcile, or even made it work - if only someone had flipped the script. One new standalone piece in each chapter. Requests welcome. *Updated* with Chapter 35, "Everything I Think I Know," a new twisty flip of 1.09, aka Addison's Grand Entrance, in honor of its 14th anniversary.
1. Treatment

_**Author's Note: New project alert!** Starting a new story when I have two massive WIPs ongoing - crazy, or crazier? But this is a chance for my Addek heart to get out some feels and work out some drabbles that end up helping me with the longer stuff. So, time to flip the script. Each chapter of this story will be a standalone one-shot expanding on a moment either during or directly after a particular episode when things could have gone the other way for Addison and Derek. There are so, so many times they could have just talked and made progress! Or run into each other at opportune moments and ... you get the idea. Ultimately,_ _the goal of each one will be to figure out how they could have flipped a moment of the script toward true reconciliation._

 _Season 2 makes the most sense to me to explore, especially in terms of finally having important conversations, but I'm open to 3, 4, and even 5, depending on what people are interested in reading. Perspectives/narrators will vary, but all will be Addek. So … are you interested in reading?_

 _(The tone of this first piece is inspired by Seema's brilliant Five Ways Derek Redeems Himself, one of the first fics I ever read. I'm not sure if Seema is still out there and writing, but … yeah. She rocks.)_

 _First one-shot is inspired by the final montage in season 2, episode 11. Others may be somewhat longer, this one is brief._ _Here goes:_

* * *

 **Treatment** _  
(2.11, "Owner of a Lonely Heart")_

* * *

"I think Izzie Stevens hates me."

They're the first words she's spoken, other than _I'm lonely, Derek,_ since she entered the gallery. A part of wonders if she even said the lonely thing out loud. Sometimes she thinks the loneliness just seeps from her pores, announcing itself to the world so loudly that it doesn't need to be verbalized. In Seattle, she's an open wound.

"Stevens …" Derek looks like he's trying to place her. She couldn't say he looks interested, exactly, but he doesn't stand up and walk away, so that's something.

It's something in Seattle, anyway.

Addison waits for his nod of recognition, then continues. "She did some excellent work with Dorie Russell and her girls, but … then I, uh, I put her in charge of one of the quints overnight and ... let her think she killed the baby."

He glances sideways at her. "Richard's bright idea?"

"Yeah, well." She looks down at her hands. "He thought it worked on me, when I was an intern."

Moments pass in silence; she reaches for another sunflower seed, and their fingers brush when she pulls it from the bag.

"Did it?" Derek asks. "Work on you, I mean."

"I don't know." She leans back a little in the chair. She remembers the baby: Jared. Jared Hartley. His twin brother, Jeremy, survived, but every time she saw that small body breathing in the NICU after that night, she felt an ache in her stomach instead of the normal rush of tenderness. Does Derek remember the morning after, she wonders? She was a mess, a heap of exhausted tears; Derek – he wasn't her husband yet, not even her fiancé, just her – boyfriend – folded her up with him in an on-call room, not talking because she couldn't hear anything, just holding her. They were so young then. Naïve. She didn't speak to Richard for almost a year.

And now he's one of the only people in this town who speaks to her at all.

 _Did_ Richard's lesson work? Is she different now? She's older, certainly. Less naïve. She's lost patients, far more than her childish intern self could have thought possible. Then, she thought she could save everyone. Even the ones other people thought were too far gone.

"I don't know," she admits. She glances at her husband, feels the space between them even as they sit side by side, and turns the question back to him. "Do you think I still get too attached?"

"You didn't get too attached to our wedding vows."

It stings, but she takes it. It more than stings, actually, knowing that her tender underbelly is just another surface for him to kick these days. Even if he deserves to hurt her, even if she deserves to be hurt, it still stings. A part of her is surprised he can still hurt her so quickly, so deeply, with just a few words.

And then another part of her isn't surprised at all.

She doesn't look up at him again until she's steadied her face and blinked back the tears that were threatening to spill.

"I'm sorry," he says abruptly. "That was a cheap shot."

Now _that_ surprises her. But she just nods quickly, hoping they can drop this before tears actually fall.

"Addison…"

"I still get attached," she says, before he can say anything more, willing her voice not to tremble; his sounded almost gentle and she's afraid she won't be able to handle what he's planning to say. "I still hang on, I … get involved, but …well." She looks down at her hands again. "I guess I don't like giving up too easily."

"No." Derek holds out the bag of sunflower seeds and she takes another. "You never did like giving up."

She waits for another dig, for him to add _except when you gave up on our marriage_ or even _you gave it up to Mark pretty easily_ , but it doesn't come. He's just sitting next to her quietly.

"Sometimes I do need help," she begins tentatively after a few long moments of silence, "knowing when it's time to stop treatment, to let go of a ... patient." She forces herself to breathe, to rely on medical metaphor because she's too frightened to say the actual words. He deserves an out, doesn't he? After what she did to him, he deserves it.

But that doesn't mean she wants him to take it. Her heart flutters slightly when he glances at her. _Don't cry_ , she wills herself, no matter what he says, not here. _Wait until you're home_ ... wherever that is.

"Doctors will always have different opinions on the appropriate time to stop treatment," Derek says slowly, like he's lecturing around a patient's bedside.

"Right." She leans back in her seat. It's no more than what they both learned as interns; she was wrong to read more into the moment.

He stands up, then, brushing crumbs from his scrubs, and indicates the door with his chin. "I have post-ops."

She nods.

"Are you…"

"I think I'll stay here." If she was lonely before, staring into an empty OR can only help, right? The room on display is as empty as she feels: it's a marker, a place where something happened, notable for what its absence represents. Like the strip of whiter skin on the fourth finger of her husband's bare left hand.

Truthfully, she's not sure she can walk outside with him right now, into the glaring fluorescence of the hallway, where the crush of people makes her feel even more alone.

He starts to swing the door open, then leans back, half in and half out of the gallery.

"Addie…"

She doesn't look up. "Yeah?"

"It's not time yet. To, uh, to stop ... treatment."

She feels the beginning of a smile, before she can stop it, maybe even a flicker of hope, as she raises her eyes to meet his. "It's not?"

"It's not," Derek echoes, and as the door swings shut behind him the rest of the smile spreads across her face.

* * *

 _My babies! They were so young in this episode. (Insert Adele singing: "We could have had it aaaaaaall...") So, what do you think? I want to continue this project if people are interested in reading it! Any particular episodes or moments you're interested in flipping for this story? Let me know, and thank you, as always!_


	2. The Prince Consort

**A/N: First, _thank you!_ ** times a thousand for the fabulous response to this project! I'm so happy to see Addek is still alive and well in 2017. Please keep letting me know what you like and don't like, what you want to see, etc., because it helps me shape these pieces.

Chapter two picks up at the end of episode 2.13, after Derek and Addison's infamous _queen of passive-aggressiva_ conversation. This episode always bugged me a little - Derek dropped a huge bomb on Addison on Christmas Eve, and 2.13 apparently picks up three weeks later with Addison and Derek ... fighting about trout. And then, in a scene that exemplifies why I hated Derek in Season 2, he flirts sweetly with Meredith in the elevator, tells her he's not over, and then when the doors open to reveal Addison, he accuses _her_ of being passive-aggressive. But then at the end the McShepherds sit together on the trailer's porch, and they share a beer, and maybe, just maybe, if they'd actually _talked_ ...

* * *

 **The Prince Consort**  
 _(Episode 2.13, "Begin the Begin")_

"I still hate the trailer."

"…as is your right." He lifts the bottle of beer just slightly toward her, infinitesimally, really, before he takes another sip.

And then neither of them says anything. They sit in silence for long minutes, interrupted only by the sounds of a country night and the occasional swirl of fragrant smoke from the trout he's cooking – outside, this time.

When she finally starts to speak, it's so quietly that the crickets almost drown her out.

"What was that?"

"I said, _you're the king_."

"The king." He frowns, trying to figure out what she means.

"The king. If I'm the queen, and you and I are married, then that makes you … the king of the Land of Passive Aggressiva. Come on, Derek … you _know_ I hate the smell of freshly-caught fish."

"Trout."

" _Fish._ " She reaches across the space between them to pluck the beer bottle from his hand, then takes a long sip. "You're the king, Derek."

"I'm not the king."

"Just say it."

"I can't say it, because I'm not the king." It's his turn to reach over and take the beer back from her for a swallow. "If anything … I'm the Prince Consort."

She furrows her brow.

"The title belongs to you," he explains. "You're the one who earned it. Me, I just married into it, so I can't be the king."

She shakes her head. "Is that – is that a real thing?"

"Of course it is. Like Prince Albert."

"How do you know this, exactly?"

"You know my mom loved all that royal stuff." He pauses, remembering the way she'd flip through the magazines on the supermarket checkout line, between unloading large quantities of generic groceries. She wouldn't buy them, of course, she'd never waste money on them – but she did like to look. He can't blame her, really. "Pretty much the exact opposite of five noisy kids in a three-bedroom."

Addison is silent for a moment, and he knows she's thinking about his mother. _Your mother hates me,_ he waits for her to say, but she doesn't say it. Maybe she's letting go of the old script. And then he won't have to say _my mother loves you,_ and then try to explain how both those things can be true at once. Just like he can hate her for sleeping with his best friend, and also –

Maybe, just maybe, still love her too.

The thought startles him.

 _Does_ he? Still love her, that is. He knows she wants to ask it. He knows it the same way he knows she hates the smell of freshly-caught fish and he knows she wasn't shrieking about the trailer and he knows _she_ knows she wasn't shrieking about the trailer.

He can't say it, not yet, but for the first time he considers that it might be possible.

"In the elevator today, with Meredith," she begins hesitantly, and he feels his hackles rise. "You looked … happy," she says, surprising him.

"Happy," he repeats.

"You looked happy. Until you saw me, that is, so … _are_ you over her, Derek?"

"No," he says honestly, looking down at his beer because he doesn't want to see the expression on her face.

"But you still think it will … pass."

"Addison."

"How am _I_ the passive-aggressive one here, Derek? How is that fair?"

 _You slept with my best friend, I don't need to be fair._ That's what he could say, but he doesn't. Not this time; he chooses to say nothing instead.

"You're not over her," she persists.

"Maybe I'm not over you, either."

Her eyebrows are raised when he glances at her. She uncrosses and recrosses her legs, a familiar gesture that means she's buying time.

"You fell in love with her," she says finally.

"I fell in love with her," he admits.

"But you still want me to … wait for it to pass."

"That would be good," he says again.

It's been maybe fifteen minutes since _wait for it to pass_ was first uttered, but Addison's nothing if not a diligent double-checker.

"Then I can wait for it to pass."

"Okay, then. I appreciate that."

"But … only if Meredith's not the only one."

It's his turn to be confused. "You want me to … date someone else?"

"No!" She makes a sound that's almost a laugh, then fidgets slightly, her voice dropping. Whatever it is she's about to say seems to embarrass her. "I meant only if you … love me too," she says finally, and her voice breaks slightly on the last two words. "You said _maybe_ you're not over me either, but Derek…" Her voice trails off. She's not looking at him.

Oh.

"I don't want to pressure you," she sighs. "It's just you haven't said it, you've never said it, not here in Seattle, and I just … well, I kind of need to know."

Her voice is starting to slide into recognizable anxiety, about half a pitch higher than normal.

"Addison."

"Derek," she counters. "You know, it's … a little passive-aggressive of you not to tell me," she prods gently. "More than a little. Even if the answer is no."

"Well." He takes a sip of beer. "I _am_ the Prince Consort of the Land of Passive-Aggressiva."

"And as the queen, I outrank you, so I can order you to answer me. … What?" she says off his look. "I know a few things."

"You do know a few things."

"But I don't know if my husband wants me in Seattle," and now her voice sounds thin, unsteady. "I don't know if he loves me. I just know … that I moved here, I picked up and moved across the country and I live in a _trailer_ , Derek, and I'm sorry if that sounds passive-aggressive but I just-"

"Addison." He interrupts before she can hit true flipout mode.

"Yeah?" Her eyes are shining when she looks up at him.

"I need time, Addie. I just need time, okay?"

For a moment it seems like the tears brimming in her eyes are going to spill over, but she blinks them back. She always blinks them back.

He gazes out toward the horizon. Maybe the lake has some answers for him.

"You can't even look at me," she says after a few moments.

"That's not true."

"Well, you look at me differently."

He pauses. She's not wrong, not really. "I don't _want_ to look at you differently, or to –

"…to be nauseous." She finishes the sentence for him, her voice faint. "You look at me and you feel nauseous, right?"

He glances at her. "That night, yes. That's how I felt. I think you'd feel the same way if our positions were reversed."

"When I saw you, with … Meredith," as always when she says her name, it sounds a little foreign, and a little difficult for her to manage, and he can tell just from her tone that she's talking about her first night in Seattle, "…and I saw the way you were fixing the collar of her coat, like you used to do for me…." Her voice trails off. "I felt like the elevator missed a floor. Or ten."

It's a prime opportunity for him to get in a dig about how much worse what she did was than what he did.

Or to point out that she'd managed to recover fast enough to throw barbed words at Meredith, and at him.

He doesn't, though, and he's not really sure why.

"Derek…"

"Time, Addie," he repeats. "I just need time."

"I know, and I want to give it to you, honey, I do." Her voice is eager now, her eyes wide. "I guess I just need to know it's not for nothing. I mean, I kind of need to know, at least, just that you can … look at me."

He looks around the wide expanse of land. He used to want a trailer, and they'd talk about it, joke about it. Now he has one.

And now she's here, living in it. With him.

"I can look at you, Addison."

He's looking at her right now, in fact. Her face is composed, even if he knows, from the set of her jaw, how much effort it takes to keep it that way. In the dim porch light he can see a muscle twitch near her cheekbone, another dead giveaway. It's easier to see with her hair like that, the front part pulled back. He's always liked it when she wore that style, maybe because he can see more of her face that way.

"I can wait for it to pass," she whispers. "And you don't have to answer me, not if you're ready, not yet. If you can look at me … that's enough for me, now. If you can look at me, then I can wait."

For a long moment they're both silent, their gaze meeting in the small space between them on the trailer's wooden porch. She nods, just slightly, accepting it. Accepting him.

"Thank you," he says finally – it doesn't quite seem like enough, but it's _something_ , and then he sees her shiver slightly. There's a cool breeze rising off the lake, ever-present dampness in the air.

He sets down the beer bottle, stands up, and holds out a hand to her. "Let's go inside … your majesty. It's getting cold."

"What about the trout?"

"The trout is getting slow-smoked. The trout is fine for a little while."

She studies him for a moment, then slips her chilly hand into his and lets him help her to her feet.

In the doorway of the trailer she pauses for a quick kiss – then smiles at him, almost shyly, before she leans in to kiss him again, more deeply this time.

"Addie…" He rests a hand on her shoulder when she pulls back.

"Is it … okay?" her tone is so hesitant. "I mean, if I…." her voice trails off.

She's asking him. Like a question, like they haven't been exchanging kisses, quick and soft, long and deep, chaste, hurried, passionate, every kind of kiss in the world, for sixteen years.

He meets her eyes, with some effort. They're shining again.

"Addison…"

"No, it's okay," she says quickly, like he's already disappointed her. "I'm sorry, I'll just-"

"Addie, wait." She turns back to him, something a little different in her eyes now.

"I said I need time, Addison, and I do. But not just time to get … over her, past it, whatever. I need time with you."

"With me?" There it is, in her voice. He hasn't heard it for a while.

Hope.

"With you."

He looks out at his land for a moment.

Their land – they're still married, so it's her land too.

"I do – want you to wait, for it to pass, and I'm glad you're willing to wait. But it's not just … marking time. I want time with you, too."

Her eyebrows are working now in the manner that means she's trying not to cry; her pursed lips make that clear. In some ways she's too polished, elegant to be anything like the nervous medical student he met sixteen years ago. But when she presses her fingers to the middle of her forehead, blinking back tears and only mostly succeeding this time, she's also sort of exactly like that nervous medical student.

"Addison…"

"Thank you," she says softly. "That, um, that means a lot and I know it's probably not easy to say, so … thank you."

"Well," he teases her, trying to lighten the air between them. If he knows her she'll want a moment to compose herself. "That wasn't passive-aggressive at all. What happened to the queen?"

"Queens take days off." She swallows, brushes her hair behind her ears, and then reaches up to touch his jaw. "More days off than surgeons do. Derek … is that really what you want? Time with me? I mean, do you really want that?"

"I do." He thought he was forcing himself to say it, but now he thinks he actually does.

 _And we need it._

He thinks he's finally figured it out, in fact. That time is exactly what they need. You don't fix a broken leg by leaving it in two pieces; you don't wait and hope a subdural hematoma heals itself. You get in there and you do something about it.

You fix it.

Or at least you try.

Some injuries don't heal, they both know that perfectly well, but … you take the time to fix it. You take the time to try.

Together.

He reaches out to brush her cheek where a tear would fall, if she let it.

"It's not just waiting for me to get over her. You know, I can also … get under you."

There's a hint of tears behind her laughter, but it sounds good anyway. It sounds like healing.

"You still want to get under me?" She smiles at him, turning her head slightly to dab at her eyes.

"I do. Or you can get under me, I'm not picky."

"Derek." A muscle under her eye jumps just slightly; he touches it with his thumb.

"So… should we start now?"

"Now's good," she whispers.

"After you, then." He rests a hand on the small of her back like he has so many times before, guiding her through the screen door in front of him. "The royal bedchamber awaits."

* * *

 _Thoughts? This one didn't go exactly the way I expected, but I think I like it. There was something sad about that episode, even with the sort of ... aggressive ... comedy of the hair dryer and the trout and the kicky musical cues in that rather cruel elevator scene. But ... on to the next one, which should be up soon! Currently in the works, thanks to excellent requests and prompts: chapters based on Yesterday, Let it Be (the episode with Savvy & Weiss), Thanks for the Memories (the Thanksgiving episode), and the Catherine Deneuve one. I think that's the official title. Viva l'Addek Revolution! _

_PS Am I posting too much? You'd tell me if I posted too much ... right?_


	3. The Blue Sheets, with the Stripes

**A/N: Thank you** so much for all your wonderful comments and great suggestions! Now for Chapter 3 - The Thanksgiving Episode! Several of you mentioned doing a post-ep for this one, and it was already in the works because the Addek hive-mind is, well, a hive-mind. Which is awesome. (Raise your hand if you came to Grey's and Addek on Netflix and so you've never seen the extended version of this episode where they reminisce about Chinese food and medical school and sex. And then go find the extended version, because it's great.)

So: it's dark, it's raining, there's no anesthesia in sight, and Addison has just asked Derek if he's done hurting her back (spoiler alert: he's not, but that's why we have fic, to fix things!). Here we go...

* * *

 **The Blue Sheets, with the Stripes _  
_**( _2.09, "Thanks for the Memories")_

It's not the first time they've kissed since she came to Seattle, but it's the first time they've _kissed_ , like this. With intent. As the perennial drizzle of this town falls in front of them and the edge of the trailer's porch bites the back of her legs, they ... kiss. One of his arms slides around her back; the other curves across her body, and his lips move gently on hers: exploring.

Refamiliarizing, maybe.

But she hasn't placed that special order yet: her skin feels paper-thin, fragile, as he touches her.

"Derek…" She pulls back for a minute, feeling overwhelmed.

He palms her cheek gently. "Let's go inside?"

"Yeah." She looks down at her clenched fingers as he stands up. She's cold, she's been sitting cramped on the steps for what feels like hours - she doesn't have the key.

He holds out his hand, and she takes it, letting him pull her to her feet, and watches him fumble with the lock.

It feels warm and stale inside the trailer – it's so small, sometimes claustrophobia tugs at the corners of her mind, but she wants him – she wants to fall asleep with him and wake up with him, to feel him in her arms and feel like a wife, and this _trailer_ is where he wants to be. Here, not in a fancy hotel room that's far more her speed. And certainly not at home in their brownstone, on the bed she knows she ruined for him when she brought Mark there.

She also knows he brought Meredith here, to his trailer, but she pushes that out of their mind. It's the first time, that's what she reminded him, on the ferry, that morning. The first time since Mark _and_ since Meredith.

He's moving quickly – maybe it feels like a bandaid to him, really, something he needs to rip off and tear away the way he's pulling her sweater off over her head right now. The air catches her bare shoulders and she shivers a little.

"Cold?"

"Just a little."

"I'll warm you up," he says teasingly, drawing her back into his arms, and she has to blink back moisture from her eyes. How many times has he said those very words, over the years? In the shower, tugging her against his body under the steaming spray. Or the first time she took him skiing, laughing and kissing under a pile of flannel sheets. Or christening their brownstone one room at a time, chilly hardwood floors under her bare back.

He's tugging her jeans down the length of her legs now and she's smiling to herself, grateful the skintight denim of their early medical school days has gone out of fashion. There's red lace underneath, waiting for him – he's always liked her in red, and she was hoping he'd get to see it.

Hoping … and then disappointed when he didn't show.

(Not that surprised, when she thinks about it. But still disappointed.)

He pauses for a minute with one hand resting on her stomach – she needs to get on his good side, she knows this, so she doesn't protest even though she's pretty sure there's no woman – certainly not one over 35 – who's eager to welcomes that kind of touch.

Maybe one ... the one who was in this bed last. The thought tenses her muscles as his fingers slide to her hip, toying with the lacy fabric.

It's dim in the trailer, but when his hands roam over her back, reaching for metal clasps, she can make out his eyes - and the cloudiness in them dries her mouth.

"Derek?" She hates how uncertain her voice sounds.

His fingers still when she speaks his name.

"Water," she whispers hoarsely.

He swings his legs out of the bed, looking at her curiously. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," she says, as he returns with a half-drunk bottle of water and she drains the rest of it. Hydrated, at least, she shrugs lacy fabric off her skin herself, even though she's still cold, even though gooseflesh is rising as she watches him make short work of most of his clothes. That's good, at least, she feels less naked that way, and when he crawls back in next to her his boxers are all that remains between them.

He wants her, or at least his body does: there's proof of it pressing against her. That should make her feel better, shouldn't it? But when she tries to capture his gaze his eyes look lost, and she wonders, painfully, if she's really the one in his bed. Her hands rise mechanically to push the fabric from his hips.

"You okay?"

She blinks when he asks the question again, wondering if she spoke out loud, or if he was actually looking at her and saw that she was … whatever she is.

"Yeah." She reaches up to her arms over him, toys with the curls at the back of his skull like she used to. The ones closest to his neck are so soft.

"Good." He lowers his head to brush his lips along the flesh between her neck and shoulders, the way he always does, the way she likes it, and she wraps her arms tighter around him.

The feel of him between her thighs is so terribly familiar, every inch of it, down to the way he rests one arm next to her head to take some of the weight off of her body. Even now, even after what she did to him, even when she practically had to beg him for this, he's conscious not to crush her and for some reason she finds her eyes are brimming with tears.

"Addison?"

He's been kissing her neck, but now he's lifted his head, and he looks concerned.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." She tries to get control of her breath, even twist her trembling lips into something resembling a smile – _come on, Derek, just rip the bandaid off_ – but he doesn't look fooled.

Instead, he eases the rest of his weight off of her, propping himself up on his side and looking down at her with more of that same concern in his blue eyes. For some reason that makes the moisture in her own eyes spill over.

God, it's embarrassing. She starts to put a hand up to her face, but remembers he never liked when she did that. Would he still care now? She's wondering about that, and also trying to remember how to breathe, when he reaches a tentative hand toward her.

He brushes some of her hair off her face with slow, careful movements, tucking it behind her ear, his fingers warm against the chill.

…which makes her cry more. He doesn't shush her, just waits.

"What is it, Addie?" He asks finally, gently.

"Nothing, I just…" she swallows hard, manages to stop most of the tears, and swipes at her eyes. "It's nothing. Just … keep going," she mumbles.

Derek frowns. "No. Not like this." Lightly, he touches her jaw. "What happened? Did I hurt you?"

 _You did. And I hurt you. We hurt each other so, so much. So much that it scares me sometimes thinking we can never get back to the way we were._

But that's not what his question means, she knows that, so she just shakes her head. "You didn't hurt me."

"Okay." He nods, reaching to help her sit up. "Here, let me – there you go," and she's propped up on pillows he stacks behind her.

He's sitting halfway up too, then; he lifts an arm just enough for her to lean into him and she's grateful for the steady support of his body. His bare chest feels warm against her skin: how many times in the last decade and a half did she drift off to sleep with his steady heartbeat her lullaby? She shivers lightly and he reaches down to pull the quilt over them both; then his hand closes around her upper arm, not rubbing but just ... there.

"You want to talk about it?"

 _For once, no._

She shakes her head against him.

He gives her arm a gentle squeeze of acknowledgement and then they're quiet, half sitting and half lying down, half together and half apart, halfway between the way they left things and the way they're going.

But they're together, as a light rain continues to drum the trailer.

"You know," he's started to play absently with her hair as her breathing slows down; long moments have passed quietly and his tone is gentle, even teasing. "Some guys might take it personally if a girl started crying in their bed."

She half-laughs, half sobs into his chest. "It's nothing personal."

"So it's not my technique, then."

When she looks up his eyes are soft, almost tender. He edges a tear off her cheek with his thumb. "You're … worrying me a little, Addison. And not just about my skills, either."

She can't really blame him for that. She's not exactly a crier during sex – well, not that kind of a crier anyway; she practically begged him for this and now she's a soggy mess in the bed he probably still associates with a carefree affair, not the weeping wife he doesn't really seem to like anymore.

"I'm sorry." She takes a deep breath. "It's just that this is…" But she trails off, glancing at him for help.

"…new," he finishes for her and they exchange a look they haven't in a long time: the one that means they've both realized that's exactly what they've been thinking.

"…which is crazy," she adds, "right? It's crazy because it's … because we've been doing this for fifteen years-"

"-sixteen," he corrects her.

"Sixteen." She turns so she can see his face, tilting her head slightly. "…sixteen? Really?"

"As of last month." His mouth quirks, almost like a smile.

She rolls her eyes automatically. "You _would_ remember that."

"I don't recall you complaining that night, Addie." His tone is a teasing one and she doesn't have to look at his face this time to know he's smirking, thinking about their first time.

She adjusts the covers around herself primly, remembering that squeaky, steel framed student bed in Derek's dorm. It made so much noise that Mark laughed openly at them in the morning, tossing Derek a carton of milk in their tiny dorm kitchen - _you obviously need to replenish your strength, man -_ and wolf-whistling at a blushing Addison.

She remembers more than just that, she remembers bits and pieces, sounds and sensations. The way they laughed together when he struggled with her tight jeans. The sheer excitement – they were so young, they were capable of so much passion. Tireless. She remembers pressing her palm to his, one lifeline against the other, measuring the feel of their fingers. And the marks on her shoulders, her breasts, from the five o'clock shadow of an overworked medical student – it didn't burn, she remembers thinking _beard burn_ was the wrong term, it didn't burn, it tingled: it was electric. How warm he felt – outside it was chilly October but he was so warm his skinny dorm bed could have been a bearskin rug in front of a crackling fire. And she remembers his shampoo – some drugstore-brand that smelled overly bright and cheap but when she buried her fingers in his curls she realized it was the most heavenly scent of her life. She didn't know then that one day more than fifteen years in the future she'd scan the aisle at Duane Reade, sniffing one generic bottle of shampoo after another, trying and failing to recapture that scent, crying a little, vowing never to tell anyone what she was doing. When a concerned shopper asked _what's wrong_ she said _nothing_ but she meant _everything._

But that first night, though. Prime among the sensations that she remembers: his bedsheets. Those sheets were pale blue with faint pink stripes. _They're orange_ , he said, the first time she saw the sheets, a hint of defensiveness in his voice, _not pink_. And then they just lay in each other arms, sweating, exhausted, and pleased with themselves.

She also remembers that the stripes weren't orange. They were actually pink: the bedding belonged to a series of older sisters first; they'd been washed so often that they were whisper-soft, and when she figured that out a few dates later she pushed him down on those faded pink stripes and did all the work to make sure he'd never be embarrassed about the stupid sheets again.

"Okay … I didn't complain," she admits.

"That's all I'm saying." He nods and she feels the movement underneath her. "In fact, I'm pretty sure I can recall you _not_ complaining … twice."

"You're so modest." She leans against him, enjoying their banter. It's been so long. "Were you this modest when I met you?"

"Who remembers? It was so long ago."

"I remember," she says softly.

"Hm?"

"When I met you," she finishes, smiling at him almost shyly, even though it's been – well, more than sixteen years.

 _The cadaver,_ he starts to say, while she says _the song._

For a moment they're both quiet, remembering.

"And I remember when we first - well. Do you still remember the sheets? The blue ones," she reminds him, "with the stripes."

"I might still remember the sheets."

"Well, I definitely remember the sheets." She leans her head against him. Truthfully, those sheets have always been her favorite. She wonders for a moment where they are now. In the basement of the brownstone? Passed on to goodwill or a college-bound nephew? "I remember a lot of things," she says.

There's a brief moment of pressure against her hair that she thinks might be his lips, and then she raises her eyes to meet his when she hears her name.

"I do remember the sheets," he confesses. "They were Lizzie's first, then Nancy's. You know my mother didn't like to waste anything. But god ... they were embarrassing." He glances at her. "They weren't actually orange, you know."

"I know."

"You didn't say anything then."

"I know," she repeats, smiling at him, but she feels a little naked, and not because of what she's wearing. She dares herself to continue. "I want ... I want new memories, Derek," she says softly, lower lip catching between her teeth. "With you. I want new things to remember."

She's a little afraid to look at him after that admission, but when she does his eyes are very soft, looking back at her.

"New memories," he muses quietly. "…like this?"

And he leans in to kiss her; his lips feel familiar, but also new, and she thinks maybe that's okay. Because maybe their marriage is going to be new, too – every stage of all of it was new at one time, after all: it was new when they met, it was new when they graduated, excited and terrified, from medical school, it was new the moment he knelt in front of her in Central Park and asked her to be his and it was new when he carried her, laughing, over the threshold of their first apartment. Eleven years in rings and a shared home - two shared homes - and now this.

This newness.

This newness can be something they'll remember, too. And she smiles against his mouth as she thinks it.

"You okay, Addie?"

He scans her face when he pulls back and this time she nods slowly. She can tell he believes her by the way he reaches out to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear – it's different this time, his fingers lingering at the high curve of her neck. It's still comforting, but it's mixed with something else too. In response, her own hand slides into the pleasing texture of his curls and she pulls him in for a deeper kiss.

He moves against her slowly, carefully now – like he's worried she'll cry again. But she doesn't.

She's mostly quiet, in fact, only the soft sounds she can't really control, just remembering the feel of him. A sigh escapes her when their bodies join: they've done this so many times. There's a way you move when you know each other that well, when the other body is as familiar as your own: in rhythms so well established it's as natural as breathing. It's the way one of his hands cups her head as she arches her back, sweeping her closer to him; it's the way she finds her fingers tracing the familiar muscles of his shoulders as they flex.

They memorized each other years ago.

Still, though, something is different. This time, it's different. Maybe it's the crisp sheets on this bed – they're new enough that she can feel their stiffness. Or that the trailer is small and it doesn't feel like home. Then there's Derek himself: he smells different here, woodsier, like pine needles and something she can't identify.

But she's in his arms now and they feel the same, the shape of them and the way they hold her - that feeling she knows best of all, the one that used to feel like coming home, _even here, even in a trailer, an actual trailer_ – and it mingles with the other, unfamiliar sensations. That's what they're doing right now, she realizes, they're starting to create something new ... together. The tension in their bodies draws to a crescendo and then their staggered breaths turn into memory.

As he sighs into her hair and their newly relaxed bodies curve into each other with finality, she has a feeling she'll remember tonight the same way she remembers their other first time.

* * *

 _...It's a little sad, but I've always pictured that first time to be a little sad. You can see Addison's vulnerability register with Derek outside the trailer at the end of the episode, and I think he's shown at various time that has an effect on him. So yeah, I think their new first time would be a little sad - with a little banter and a little humor, because that's both their defense mechanisms when they're together. What I think they needed after that episode, but didn't get, was the chance to let that first time be as healing as it is sad – as much a new memory as an old one. That's the flip I think they needed in this episode. Thoughts?_

 _Still to come: the Catherine Deneuve episode (which will be a lighter chapter than some of the others), Yesterday, and more! I'm aiming for a chapter a day ... no one ever said I'm not an optimist. Please let me know what you think - it keeps me on track!_


	4. That's All I Get?

**A/N** : This is the second Addek story I'm posting today, but the only flip. (The previous story is a full one-shot rather than a single expanded scene as I'm doing in this project.) As always, all recognizable dialogue comes directly from the episode; all characters belong to Shonda and her impressive ability to get us to still love a pairing who fictionally divorced 10 years ago. Please keep reading, reviewing, and shipping - the Addek Revolution needs us!

 **In this chapter** , we're flipping the episode in which Addison, suspecting that something is going on between Derek and Meredith, questions first Derek (who blows her off) and then Meredith (who very nicely tells her she's moving on from Derek by dating Finn). And then Addison puts together why Derek came home from the vet's in a blind rage the other night and the rest is history involving a blowout fight on the catwalk in front of pretty much the entire hospital. Vintage _Grey's_ at its finest.

Title comes from Addison's line on the catwalk – "You walk away? That's all I get?" Let's flip it so that's not all she gets…

* * *

 **That's All I Get?  
** _(2.25, "17 Seconds")_

It seems to happen in seconds.

One minute she's unloading – deservedly, thank you very much – on a man who wants to use his daughter's corpse as an incubator, and the next she's stumbling down the hall propelled by a firm hand at her waist.

Derek releases her once they're far enough from the patient's room.

"Those people just lost their daughter," he scolds.

"I know. That was my point, Derek. They need to face that. She's not coming back."

He holds up a hand to stop her, standing so close for once that his fingers brush the lapels of her open lab coat. "A little sensitivity would be nice here, okay?"

 _Sensitivity_. Coming from the … her eyes widen. Seriously?

"They love their daughter," he continues. "They don't want to let go. All right?"

"What they're doing is not about love, Derek! It's – it's..." and she realizes it right before she says it, "...well, it's like you."

"Excuse me?"

"Yeah." Her heart pounds, anger rising in her voice; her mind is swimming with memories of chasing him through the hospital all day, trying – and failing – to talk to him. _Not now_ , Addison. _There's nothing to tell_ , Addison. _This isn't the time,_ Addison.

"Like how you pretend to love me, but really you're using me to fill some need you have to be a good guy."

"Now is not the time to talk about this," he speaks over the end of her sentence, cutting her off. "We'll talk about this later."

And he turns away, calm as anything. Famous last _fucking_ words. She stalks after him as he approaches the catwalk.

"You walk away? That's all I get?"

He turns back at her raised voice. "Just calm down, please."

"What? What, you're not – what are you doing, Derek," because he's reached for her arm but she pulls it out of his grasp easily. She's just getting started, and she's sick of not talking, she's sick of _not now_. There's no more not now _,_ not anymore.

"Addison," he says sharply. He grabs her arm more forcefully this time and steers her back in the direction they came, away from the catwalk.

"Let go of me!"

He doesn't, he shoves her ahead of him into an empty exam room and closes the door, leaning against it and folding his arms. By the way his chest is rising and falling, he's none too thrilled with her at the moment, but it's nothing compared to how she feels.

"Derek, what are you _doing_?" Her gestures are as angry as she is.

"Just calm down," he repeats, infuriatingly.

"Derek!" Her heart is beating wildly, every instinct she has demanding that she get out of the room. That, or claw his eyes out. Or, frankly, both. How _dare_ he drag her out of a patient's room after specifically soliciting her advice, making her look like an idiot, especially after that blowhard called her _miss._ Which Derek didn't bother to correct, either. But that pales in comparison to the fact that he just doesn't. Fucking. Care. Whatever she does, she can't get him to care.

And now he's regarding her coolly, no emotion in his face – of fucking _course_ not – and the feeling of powerlessness makes her dizzy with rage. She forces it down. She can be sweet. If she's sweet he'll let her out. It's not like she's never manipulated him before. After eleven years of marriage, she's not exactly a novice.

"Derek," she begins softly. "I'm sorry about before, out there, okay? You're right, I was being … insensitive." She makes her lips do something resembling a smile. "I'm sorry, really. Can you please open the door, honey?"

"That's not going to work."

"Derek!" With a wordless cry of frustration she stomps across the small space that's become her prison.

"Just calm down, please."

"Seriously, Derek? How do you _not_ know that's _not_ calming? Stop telling me to calm down!"

"Then stop needing to be told." He frowns. "Come on, Addison. Count to ten, do some yoga, pretend you're at Barney's, I don't care. You're not going back out there like this."

"Like what?" She grabs at her head, furious.

"Like that," he says mildly. "I suggest you count to ten. That usually works for people."

"That's not an answer," she says.

"Well, that's not calming down," he counters.

"Derek." She hears her voice rising again. "What do you care whether I'm calm or not?"

"Counting to ten really helps, you know. There are studies-"

" _I don't care!_ "

He regards her for a moment, while she sizes him up and wonders how hard it would be to pry him away from the door. He does outweigh her and there's no question he's stronger, but she's tall and she's wily. And she's more flexible than he is. _And_ her shoes have strategically pointed toes.

"Very," he says calmly.

"What?" She glares at him.

"You're wondering how hard it would be to get past me."

"No, I'm not," she lies.

"And now you're lying."

"No, I'm not!" She glares. "Just stop, Derek."

"Okay." He holds up a conciliatory hand. "I'm stopping. You stop too, Addison. Stop and get a hold of yourself."

"I'm fine."

But, she's breathing hard, and her hands shake a little when she shoves her hair out of her face.

"Oh, I can see that. Totally fine."

"Derek, would you just _move_ ," she snaps.

"No."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because despite everything, I'm not going to let you embarrass yourself in front of everyone we work with in a very public place, and say something you're going to regret tomorrow."

"How do you know I'm going to regret it tomorrow?"

"Because you always regret it tomorrow, Addison. _Regret it tomorrow_ is your middle name, along with the ten other fancy ones."

"Not ten," she mumbles.

"Speaking of ten …"

"Shut up with the stupid counting already!"

He raises his eyebrows.

She stares right at him and starts counting, as slowly and insolently as she possibly can. Anything to get out of here. "Nine…" she drags it out. "...ten. Well?"

"I'm aware you know your numbers, Addison. The point was for the counting to calm you down, which … it clearly hasn't."

"I have a job, Derek!" She raises her voice. "I have patients, I have a service to run, I can't spend the day locked in an exam room!"

He checks his blackberry and then has the nerve to smile at her. "Actually, it hasn't been very long at all."

"Well, it feels long."

"Maybe because you're so worked up."

"I'm not worked up!"

She can't stand looking at his face anymore; she turns her back to stare at the HIPAA guidelines posted on the wall. Surely another hour has passed. Or ten. It feels like they've been in here a week.

"Derek," she turns around again. "How long _are_ you planning to block the door?"

"Just until I'm convinced you're done ranting publicly."

"How about ranting privately? Can I do that?"

He gestures at the empty room. "Knock yourself out."

"Okay." She takes a deep breath. And then for some reason she actually does count to ten, in her head, maybe because – even though she doesn't want to admit it – it's not the worst idea in the world.

Strangely, it does help a little.

"I want you to care," she says, her voice level now.

Derek tilts his head slightly, looking surprised. "What do you mean?"

"You didn't yell at me when Mark flew out here."

"You didn't ask him to fly out here," he says.

"Well, no, but…"

"So it wasn't your fault."

"Right."

"Why do you want me to yell at you for something that isn't your fault?"

 _Because I hate myself, Derek, aren't you supposed to be smart?_

"You want me to yell at you because you can't yell at yourself, is that it?"

 _Fine, you're smart._

"Maybe," she says quietly.

"Well, I'm not going to do that."

"It's more than that, Derek, it's – I don't make you angry. Not anymore."

"Why do you want me to be angry?"

"Why do I …" She pauses for a moment. "Because anger is – passion, you know?"

"That's kind of screwed up, Addie."

"Well, I'm kind of screwed up. Come on, Derek, we didn't even bother to fight by the time you left."

"What's so great about fighting?"

"We used to fight. And, uh," she stares at the pointed toes of her shoes, "we had great makeup sex, too."

"I was twenty-two when I met you, Addison. Maybe I've grown up? Maybe you have, too, although I'm not seeing that much proof at the moment?"

Okay, fine, she'll let him have that one dig. But just one.

"My point is," she continues with as much dignity as possible, "you caught me in bed with Mark and you just … walked away."

"I came back, didn't I?"

"Well, yes, but-"

"And then we fought, as I recall."

"That doesn't count."

"Throwing you out in the rain doesn't count? That wasn't enough for you?"

She inhales sharply. It's been an unspoken code that neither of them brings up that night. She had, for a terrifying unbalanced moment, been almost certain she was going to plunge down the front steps of their brownstone. She was equally certain that wasn't his intent, but she was off-balance on the damp top step, reeling from his momentum and – suffice it to say images of a shattered skull danced at the corners of her dreams for months after that.

"It counts," she mumbles. "But… it was a while ago."

He doesn't say anything, just looks at her.

"Sleeping with your best friend should make you angry," she says resolutely, not ready to let go of her theory.

He sighs. "I had to put an entire continent between us when I saw you with him, Addison. Believe me, I was angry."

"You're not angry now."

"Now? No. I'm not angry now. I'm _tired_ now," he admits. "I'm tired."

"Me too." And just like that, whatever was left of the fight drains out of her. Exhausted, she finds herself sliding down onto the rolling doctor's stool, and she props her chin on one fist on her knees. "I'm tired too."

After a while she senses he's moved closer, maybe even beside her. That means he's not blocking the door anymore, but escaping doesn't seem as tempting now.

She feels his hand come to rest on the top of her bowed head, and they stay like that for a while until he breaks the silence.

"I do care, Addison."

She looks up, trying to keep her tone from reflecting too much hope. "You do?"

He nods. "I … can't say it's been easy or that it will be easy, but … I wouldn't be willing to try if I didn't care."

She nods slowly, accepting it.

He gives her a very slight smile. "Was that what you were all set to yell about on the catwalk?"

"Yeah. Well, I hadn't really planned it all out," she admits. "And there was … other stuff, too."

"Ah." He seems to be considering this. "Do I want to know the rest of what you were planning on saying?"

"No." She shakes her head ruefully. "I don't think you do."

"Okay, then." He offers her a hand and when she grasps it and pulls herself to her feet, he lets go only to span her waist with his hands and lift her onto the exam table, surprising her.

She smiles a little in spite of herself. She's always taken a special pleasure in his ability to lift her, in how nice it is to feel small, sometimes, instead of imposing, giant. He hoists himself up to sit next to her.

"Meredith's dating the vet," she says suddenly, surprising herself and – from his expression – surprising Derek too.

He glances at her. "Yes. She does seem to be dating the vet. How did you…"

"Meredith told me."

"You talked to Meredith about the vet?"

"Basically." She pauses. "Derek, the other night, when you came home from the vet's office and we…" Her voice trails off. She already knows the answer, and his silence confirms it.

"It's … understandable, you know, if it bothers you," she offers tentatively. He waits a while before responding.

"I don't want it to bother me," he says finally. "But I'd be lying if I said it didn't."

"Okay." She nods slowly.

"Derek … was it about me, at all? That night?"

"It's always about you," he says, smiling at her, and in that moment she doesn't care if he's lying through his teeth because warmth surges through her midsection, filling up the emptiness she's felt since that night.

For a moment after that, he's silent. Then he rests a hand on her thigh and turns so she can see his face.

"Addison … tell me what you want from me," he says quietly, surprising her. "And it would really help if you could be more specific than 'I want you to care.'"

"I want you to talk to me." She's surprised how quickly the words come out. With some effort, she blinks back the tears that have been threatening to fall since he walked off and left her in the scrub room. "Actually _talk_ to me, instead of running away from me when I try to talk to you. I've been trying and trying to talk to you and asking and … you won't. Not now. _Not now_. It's always not now. Unless it's for a consult and then … well, you saw how that turned out."

"I did see how that turned out," he says ruefully.

"It's always _not now_ , Derek. When it comes to me. And you. You always have something else to do. Like when I tried to talk to you today. Multiple times."

"I was … busy, Addison."

"I'm busy too. Everyone's busy. And I get that. I don't expect all of your time, I don't _need_ all of your time, but Derek … I do needyou."

For a long moment, he's quiet. His hand rubs her leg, maybe unconsciously, but the pressure of his warm palm feels nice – grounding.

"Okay," he says finally, "Let's … try something new. How about, if you want to talk to me, you tell me – just wait," he says when she starts to interrupt. "I'm not finished. If you want to talk to me, you tell me, and I promise you we'll set a time to do it. It might not be right then. But it won't be never, either."

"It's always never," she says glumly.

"That's an oxymoron and – it's not true, not anymore at least."

"So how exactly is this going to work?"

"It means I won't say _not now_ , not unless I have another time to propose. So it won't be _not now_ , it will be … _then._ "

"Really?"

Something flickers across his features. "Really."

She presses her lips together.

"So that's my part of it," he continues. "And you, well … you'll believe me, and stop asking."

She looks down at her hands. "I can guess how that's going to turn out."

"Addison, don't do that." He shakes his head. "Don't set us up to fail, don't set _me_ up to fail. You want to try this, let's just try this."

"I'm sorry," she says quickly. "It's a good idea, I do want to try it, I just …"

"What?"

She's not sure, actually.

"What if we don't finish what we need to talk about?"

"Then we set another time to finish it."

She considers this. "And in the in between times … I stop asking you?"

"Right," he nods. "But that also means in the in between times, we don't have to try to … finish it. We actually take a break. Maybe even do other things."

"What other things?'

"I can think of a few." He smirks.

"Fishing." She grimaces.

He actually smiles at her. "Definitely fishing. You can come with me and tell me all about how much you hate the trailer, and Seattle, and the entire Pacific Northwest. As long as you do it quietly so you don't scare the fish."

She laughs a little in spite of herself. "Okay."

"Yeah?" He studies her face for a moment. "Good."

"Derek-"

His pager goes off. "Sorry." He glances down. "I need to go."

She nods. He swings down from the exam table, and then helps her down. He pauses with a hand on the door. "You're not going to have another catwalk tantrum, right?"

"Right."

"Walk with me, then?"

"Yeah, okay." She straightens her dress self-consciously, adjusting her lab coat around it, and follows him out the door.

"You know I need to go," he's saying as they walk down the hall, indicating the pager on his hip. "So let's … set a time to finish this."

She glances at him uncertainly, and he nods.

"Okay," she says slowly.

"Dinner?"

"Yeah. Dinner would be good."

"Eight, then," he says. "I'm finished at seven, and then there are a few pieces I need to wrap up."

"Eight," she echoes.

"Right, eight." He leans in for a quick kiss.

"Derek –"

"Yeah." He turns the next corner and she follows.

"Thanks for not letting me embarrass myself," she says softly.

"Don't mention it." He nudges her with his shoulder and waits for her to look up at him. There's a faint, but perceivable, twinkle in his eyes. "I mean ... you would have embarrassed me, too," he adds.

"I _knew_ you had an ulterior motive!"

"And I knew you would say that."

"You don't know everything."

"Ah, but I knew you were going to say _that_ , too."

"Derek!"

He stops her with a hand on her arm and indicates the patient's room they've reached. "This is where I get off." He leans over and kisses her cheek. "See you tonight, Addie."

And then he's gone, striding into the open room, and she can hear him greeting the patient – that warm doctor's voice of his that she loves – and grilling his resident too.

But for once, the sight of his retreating back leaves her hopeful instead of disappointed.

* * *

 _Aw... why can't they listen to me and work out their problems?_

 _I've sometimes thought that argument on the catwalk was the true death knell of their relationship. Derek just coolly looking down to indicate that everyone has been watching them and then walking off and leaving Addison there, humiliated, was brutal and it felt like he was washing his hands of her. Thoughts?_

 _I think if Derek had made more of an effort to contain the argument once it started, they could have addressed the issues without Addison getting hung out to dry. So that's the flip I think that scene needed._

 _I've gotten amazing suggestions and requests both in reviews and in PMs – please, keep them coming! And thank you as always for reading and reviewing and keeping me on the straight and narrow of a chapter a day. PS Climbing Way readers, I promise I'll update that very soon! I'm just out of the headspace a bit, but I'll get back in._


	5. Air

**A/N: First, thank you!** Your reviews and PMs and comments are so great and I am so grateful - and I appreciate all the insight and ideas! So happy Addek still provokes this much thought. And I'm sorry I missed a day yesterday (no pun intended). Apparently "we need to get home before midnight so I can keep up my posting streak" doesn't really fly. But here's the next flip, this one from "Yesterday," the episode where Mark flies to Seattle to throw a wrench in things, and tells the viewers for the first time that it wasn't a one-night stand.

So, Mark is at Joe's hoping Addison will show up, and Addison and Derek are in the trailer looking miserable, and we fade to black: the end of any chance for Addek to address Mark's visit in any productive way. Unless we flip the script and don't fade to black at all...

* * *

 **Air _  
_** _(2.18, "Yesterday")_

 _The air is thick with tension._ She remembers reading that expression somewhere, a long time ago.

It's inaccurate.

It's the opposite of accurate because right now the air in the semi-dark silence of the trailer is about as tense as it gets – but it's thin, not thick. It's very thin. It's so thin she's not sure there's even enough oxygen for her to breathe alone or for Derek to breathe alone, much less sufficient oxygen to support whatever's left of their marriage.

She wraps her hands around her mug of tea, the only warmth offered to her right now, and catches his slight exhale. No one has spoken in the trailer for so long she's not sure she remembers how. She can't see him from her position curled on the bench at the small kitchen table, but the minimal light of the reading lamp is on, and if she knows him he's stretched out on his preferred side of the bed with a medical journal open, face-down, on his chest.

(She knows he's not actually reading it, because he's been a loud page-turner since medical school. In fact, the speed and sound of his page-turning is another good way to gauge his mood.)

No, he's not reading. But he's not sleeping, either; his breaths are paced all wrong for that. What he's doing, she's quite certain, is thinking, either about her or actively _not_ about her.

Either way: every inhale, every exhale, that she can catch from across the trailer says very clearly, _don't talk to me._

But she's never been very good at taking orders.

"Derek?"

Her tone is hesitant, and he doesn't respond.

Unfortunately, as silent as her husband is right now, Mark is loud in her head:

 _How do you expect to work out a marriage if you can't even be honest with him?_

She hates how right he was. Because it's forcing her to realize that they're never going to have enough air in this trailer to breathe the life back into her marriage if she doesn't tell Derek the truth.

And she knows _herself_ well enough to know that if she doesn't do it right now, she might lose her nerve forever.

So she tries again. "Derek?"

"What is it." He never bothers with question marks when he's annoyed with her, so that's no surprise. It's all statements, no room for her answers.

"I, um … do you think you can get up?" Her voice trembles.

"Why?"

It's a reasonable question. She wouldn't normally ask without a good purpose, a rational purpose, like _your pager's going off_ or _your mother's on the phone_ or _there's a silverfish on the bookshelf._

Are there silverfish in Washington? She's not sure.

There are definitely not bookshelves in the trailer. Not like the built-ins in the brownstone's library.

Derek is still waiting for an answer. She props her head on her fist in this strange new metal-encased life. It feels temporary, portable, like he might cross the country again at any time.

"Because I want to talk to you," she says.

"I don't want to talk to you right now."

He's just being honest, she knows this, even if his immediate answer stings.

"I know that." She takes a deep breath, forcing herself to push through anyway. _I don't want to talk to you_ hasn't gotten them very far in the past. It's gotten them right here to this airless trailer, is what it's done.

"I know that, Derek. I do. I get that. And you may want to talk to me even less after what I'm about to tell you, but…"

"Addison." She hears the creak of the bed that means he's turning onto his side – maybe he can see her across the darkened trailer. Maybe that's something. "It's late."

"I know that too." She nods, trying to ground herself, then pushes off from the tiny kitchen table in search of the familiar bottle.

"It's too late for me to try to make sense of whatever … _this_ is," he says.

Two glasses join the bottle. "I know it's late. But right now I'm pouring you a drink and I'm pouring _me_ a drink and I need to talk to you and … we need drinks to do it, so..."

"Come on, Addie," he groans. "It's too late for you to flip out. You can flip out in the morning."

"It's not a flipout. Really."

There's a long moment of silence.

" _Please,_ Derek," she says at last and maybe he hears the desperation in her voice because _she_ hears him ease himself off the bed and trek the few steps to the trailer's small kitchen. And then he appears in front of her, tired-eyed, his hair tousled in that way that means he's rubbed a frustrated hand through it. (Because of her. It's usually, if not always, because of her.)

"Drink first," she says, her hand shaking a little as she offers him a tumbler. "And then listen."

"Addison…" But he takes the glass and downs a sip before sitting down on the bench, propping his head in his hand.

"…you're going to hate me," that's all she can manage at first.

"Addison, don't do this. I've been up since – just don't do this." He rubs a hand tiredly through his hair. "You wanted me to get up, I got up. So talk."

"I'm trying. But …" Her voice trails off again.

"If you have something to say, just say it."

She stares into the amber liquid in her glass; she can almost see her reflection in it. Not that she really wants to see her own face, though. Right now, she hates her own face. And she has a feeling that he will too, when he knows – if he doesn't hate it already.

"Addison..." It's clear he's losing patience, and she doesn't want him to get up and leave. Because if he gets up and leaves, then she'll lose her nerve, like she has every other time since she opened the doors of Seattle Grace to walk all over Derek's new life.

"Twasnwonitesand." She gets it all out very quickly, in one breath.

His brow furrows. "Excuse me?"

"I said … it wasn't a one-night stand." She flinches automatically from the power of the words, even though he hasn't reacted at all, just continued to stare past her, holding his drink. But the air feels even thinner now, like her admission sucked some of it out of the room. "I, um, I stayed with Mark in New York, after you left, I don't even know why, I thought I needed to give it a try and I didn't think you'd ever speak to me again, and then when I came out here I was afraid to tell you and then you started talking to me again and, well, I just didn't. I'm sorry, Derek. I'm so sorry."

She stops talking to swallow a mouthful of scotch. Her lips are tingling, and there's a ringing sound in her ears. Derek feels very far away from her now, like a shadow of himself, and he's still not saying anything.

Long moments of silence pass.

"Derek," she says tentatively, "did you-"

"I heard you." His voice is cold, expressionless.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you before," she says faintly. "I really am."

More long moments of silence during which she breathes while she can.

"Derek…." She looks down at her hands. "You can yell at me. You should. You should, I deserve it. I truly am sorry."

He pours himself another drink instead and drains it, slowly, without looking at her or speaking to her.

She feels herself start to shake. She's invisible to him again, like the night he walked in on them in the brownstone. He couldn't look at her then. _I can't look at you,_ that's what he said. _I look at you, I feel nauseous._

"Derek, please. Go ahead, I can take it. Please, yell at me, or just ... say something."

Silence.

She hears her tone grow more desperate, filling the silence. "I'm so, so sorry that I didn't tell you before, Derek, I'm so sorry, but please try to understand-"

"I understand."

His voice is hoarse, like he hasn't used it in a while.

"You do?"

"I understand that you're telling me in the middle of the night so I can't ..." his gaze flickers over the trailer, his meaning clear. _So I can't get away from you._

"You can." Her voice trembles. "You can ask me to leave and I'll go, Derek. I don't want to stay here just because you think I have nowhere else to go."

"Leave with Mark, you mean."

"No." She shakes her head firmly. "I'm not going back with Mark. Even though he ... asked me to," and she winces slightly admitting this, "and I mean I don't think you really want me to stay but … I 'm not going back. I told him that. And he's flying out in the morning. And even if you … if we …" her voice shakes slightly, "even if I can't stay here, I'm still not going to go back with him."

She sees the word _back_ register with him.

"You can, uh, you can still throw me out if you want," she says weakly, "just … give me a little warning this time so I can put on pants first." She tries to sound like she's joking but she's pretty sure he can hear the truth within it.

She's poised for anger, ready to take it, but he just shakes his head.

"Addison." He sounds tired, if anything. "Why are you telling me this now?"

"Because I really, really want this to work." Her voice trembles. "Us, I mean. And we need to be honest with each other, if we're going to make it work. And I didn't tell you before, because … I wanted, so badly, for you to give us another chance."

He nods.

"And I didn't think you would have given us another chance, if you knew." She pauses, and wipes the worrisome beginning of moisture from one eye. She wasn't going to cry, _isn't_ going to cry; it's not like crying helped the last time. "Would you have given us another chance, if you knew?"

"I don't think you really want to know the answer to that."

Despite her promises to herself, despite the years of sometimes painful training not to cry, she's not sure she can do this anymore. She buries her face in her hands just in case - the closest to privacy you can get in this trailer - and tries to get control of herself.

He doesn't say anything, doesn't touch her, but he's still sitting there looking at her when she lifts her head and swipes at the minimal dampness in her eyes.

When he finally talks, his voice is quiet and husky, like he's the one who's been fighting tears. "You really want to know? You want me to be honest?"

"I do," she confirms.

"Okay." He nods slowly. "Here's some honesty: I did fall in love with her, Addison. It wasn't revenge, like I said, or a fling. I was … empty, when I got here, to Seattle. I was drowning, I was _broken_ , and she fixed me. And … I miss her. Sometimes."

She swallows hard, taking it in. Not just that he was broken, but that she was the one who broke him.

And that what he's saying about Meredith doesn't sound that different from how she felt about Mark.

How did the two of them break each other to the point they needed other people to put them back together? Their broken pieces should fit into each other's.

At least, they used to.

"Okay," she nods, grateful that the tears have finally stopped, though her breath still hitches a little. "It's … not easy to hear but I wanted to hear it so, thank you. You miss her, I get it. The truth is, I, uh, I … miss him a little, too," she confesses. "Sometimes."

She does. She's known Mark as long as she's known Derek and he was always smooth, a smooth operator; predictably, living with him meant finding another woman's panties in his lab coat pocket but it also meant he could work a line, that he called her beautiful and could always tell when she was wearing a new dress; he showed up for her, paid attention to her, massaged her shoulders and made her coffee and listened to her complain about work.

And cheated on her.

Repeatedly.

He did all those things and sometimes … she misses him.

She raises her eyes to meet Derek's now, with difficulty.

"I do miss him sometimes, but … never as much as I missed you, when you left. And before you left, when you … stopped coming home. You were always the one I missed, Derek."

He exhales a short puff of air. "You missed me so much you slept with my best friend."

The words should be cutting, but his tone is musing, even gentle – not aggressive. She can tell he's remembering her own words when she arrived in Seattle: _Mark was there, and I missed you, and now I'm sorry._

"Actually, yeah. Kind of." She takes a swallow of scotch. "Pretty screwed up, huh?"

She pours another shot; he moves the glass slightly away from her when she sets it down.

"You're going to have a headache tomorrow, Addison."

"Probably." She stares at the surface of the kitchen table, then closes her eyes, willing the tension out of her body.

She's surprised to feel a hand at the back of her neck, pressing into the flesh there, like he used to in a cab after a long night out when she'd start to feel the effects of too many cocktails. His fingers feel cool against her heated skin. It's a headache cure, that's what he'd swear – all natural, people shouldn't rush to take aspirin so quickly. And she'd tease him because he was a medical student, for crying out loud, and then an intern, for crying out loud, and then a resident and then an attending and then …

 _My god, we've been together forever_.

The pressure of his hand on her neck is soothing. And he doesn't strangle her, when he clearly could, so that's a good sign … right? She shares a dark chuckle with herself, then lifts her eyes to meet his.

"Will you be there to see it?" Her voice is tentative. "If I have a headache in the morning, I mean."

He looks confused.

She tries the question in a different way. "Derek, I don't expect you to forgive me yet, for any of it, the part you already knew or the part … from tonight. But … do you still, um, want me here? I mean, can I … stay?"

It's his turn to take a long sip of his drink. The moments of silence before he answers are as loud as a heartbeat. "You can stay," he says finally.

She swallows hard. "Derek … "

She waits for him to glance at her, and then takes a deep breath. Takes a chance.

"I want to go back to the marriage counselor."

He frowns. "That quack? No."

"We could try a different counselor, then. But I think we might need more help than just … scotch."

Derek sits back in his chair, cupping his glass between both palms now, and she misses the contact of his hand on her skin.

"You think so?"

"I do." Her voice shakes a little. "I really do."

He lifts the bottle of Lagavulin from the table in front of her and examines the label. She's not sure what he's looking for. Then he turns back to her.

"Mark's leaving in the morning?"

"Mark's leaving in the morning," she confirms.

He drains his glass and sets it on the table. "Make an appointment."

Her heart flutters. "You'll show up, if I do?"

"I'll show up." He stands. "You should get some sleep, Addison. It's late, and you're operating at nine."

"How did you…" Her voice trails off. She doesn't need to ask: He knows because he scans the board for her name, as a matter of routine, just like she does for his. Just like they've always done. _D. Shepherd. A. Shepherd._ So they'll know where the other one is. He did it in New York, all the time, but she didn't realize he was still doing it here.

He's across the trailer now, pausing with a hand on the quilt as he peels it back from the bed. "Are you coming?"

The bed looks a lot warmer than the lonely kitchen corner where she started her evening. "I'll be right there," she says, stretching stiff muscles as she rises to her feet, taking a long, slow breath.

He's still standing there when she crosses to the sleeping area, and he waits for her to get under the covers before he climbs into bed – probably just because he prefers to sleep on the outside, it's simple physics.

Or maybe – just maybe – as she feels light pressure on her waist when he crawls in behind her, the dip of the bed as his body settles along hers and his deep sigh as sleep overtakes him, maybe he really was waiting for her.

* * *

 _Thoughts? Review and let me know!_

 _As for me, Yesterday was ... painful. I think this was really the point where they needed to have the conversation, even though I understand for dramatic reasons why they couldn't. That's a challenge for these flips: they're only one scene, so often she's not going to download everything that happened, but the issue is whether they can pivot enough to head toward eventual true reconciliation. That said, there's no abortion reveal here, and you can read it one of two ways: it's something she's saving for couples therapy, or it's nonexistent - because if we'd written this during season 2, that storyline wouldn't exist yet. I'm neutral as to which one but curious what you think._

 _Coming up very soon: flips of the Catherine Deneuve episode, the Doc-moves-in episode, Savvy & Weiss's visit, "well, you found me," and more! _Also, _if you're the guest who left the great idea about the Catherine Deneuve episode, please comment with a pseudonym or your name so I can credit you, because I'm definitely using it. That one's next in the queue right now!_

 _And finally, I'm determined to update The Climbing Way by tomorrow, and about three-quarters done with the next chapter. Wish me luck!_


	6. (And I Feel Fine)

**A/N:** Here we go: the Superbowl episode, aka The One with the Patient Who Had a Grenade in His Chest. Multiple people suggested this one and it's a great suggestion. This is a longer piece than some of the others and I think it might be my favorite, or at least just one of my favorites. The story went in a different direction than I expected, but I let it go - Addison and Derek have a mind of their own. Thank you so much, as always, for reading and reviewing.

So, in episode 2.17, Meredith saves the patient with the bomb in his chest, but has to see Kyle Chandler turn to pink mist in front of her. She has a gorgeous scene with Izzie and Cristina featuring my favorite musical moment on Grey's ever, and then Derek shows up at her house and says, in his Derek way, _you almost died today._ Presumably, after he visited Meredith, he went home. And when he got there, this might have happened...

* * *

 **(And I Feel Fine)**  
 _(2.17, "...As We Know It")_

He squints into the light rain that's started to fall as he eases the jeep up the dirt path leading home. And then he stops, his chest tightening, because through the mist he can just make out something outside the trailer – something dark. Something big.

It's a bear.

There's a black bear outside the trailer – right outside the trailer – and with a sinking feeling he remembers that black bears are omnivores and that _omni_ includes both people and their detritus.

But why is there a black bear outside the trailer? He's been sure to keep the grill locked up tight – and there's no way Addison would touch the grill; she's politically opposed to his cooking anything he catches and she's hardly going to prepare her own food while there are still restaurants in business. So it's not the grill. It could be the trash, but he's kept all the trash double wrapped, sealed, and secured.

So there shouldn't be a black bear outside the trailer.

…the trailer where, inside, Addison is currently sleeping.

He knows that bears are strong, and smart, and they get stronger and smarter when they're hungry. He remembers learning this in boy scouts, hearing stories at the Connecticut campsites his family used to visit about bears who opened car doors, picked delicately through coolers for snacks, and ... well, worse.

And now there's an omnivorous and presumably hungry black bear outside the trailer where Addison is sleeping.

He takes a moment to breathe, and to plan. He keeps an air horn in the jeep, a tip from the guy who sold him the trailer. He can clap. He can yell. And he can bang … something against the horn, once he's done blowing on it. For a moment, he regrets not taking the guy up on his offer of woods training. At the time, freshly arrived from Manhattan, Derek assumed it was just a salesman's instinct to fleece him. Now he thinks it might have been wise.

Determining to do the best with what he has, he eases his foot onto the gas and continues his approach, slowly.

Carefully.

And then he gets close enough to see it's not a bear at all.

It's significantly slighter than a bear … and potentially even more dangerous.

He parks and gets out of the jeep slowly.

"Hi," he says.

Addison glances up when he reaches her, face expressionless. "Hi."

She was sleeping when he left. She was sleeping when he left the trailer to drive to Meredith's and now she's not sleeping; she's sitting on the porch resting her arms on her knees and looking up at him.

She _was_ sleeping when he left; it seems important for some reason to remind himself of that. She took it hard, what happened in the hospital. She'd clung to him with unusual openness in the hallway; she was never one for public displays of weakness, affectionate or otherwise. He held her longer than he planned to before he eased her back and realized he needed to get her home. In the trailer, she was shaky and tense until, finally, she broke down and cried. _I was afraid I'd lost you,_ she said, and for once he wasn't tempted to turn it into an opportunity to remind her that she should have been worried about losing him when she slept with his best friend.

Well, not out loud, anyway.

It was easy to comfort her, at least – she didn't want much, just him – and he found it surprisingly easy to provide that comfort. Eventually he just lay down with her in the bed he supposed should be called _theirs_ instead of _his_ , telling her she needed to sleep and murmuring the kind of nonsense that usually made her stop crying, and let his hand stroke a soothing rhythm into her hair until the warm weight of her turned motionless against his chest. He waited until she was sleeping deeply enough not to be disturbed, and then he disentangled himself as carefully as he could, moved her back onto her own side, and then … he left.

"You were gone," she says. "I woke up, and you were gone."

He doesn't say anything.

"You didn't tell me you were leaving, Derek."

"You were sleeping." He says it out loud this time.

"You could have told me anyway. You could have told me you were leaving." Her voice sounds thick; she may have been crying again.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"Sorry you didn't tell me you were leaving, or sorry you left to go see Meredith?"

There's a sharp, whistling sound; it's his own indrawn breath. "Addison…."

"No, don't. It's okay." She waves one of her hands. "I mean, I get it."

"Addison, you don't need to…"

"No, I do. I get it. She did a really brave thing, you know?" Addison pauses. "Kind of stupid, but also really brave."

He can't argue there.

"And you're not sorry you went to see her."

"No, I'm not," he admits.

She glances up at Derek. "Is she … okay?"

He nods slowly. "She's okay. As okay as someone who had her hand in an open chest cavity on a grenade … and then watched a bomb squad officer die … can be."

"She's a surgeon. She's seen people die."

"Not like that, she hasn't," he says grimly.

"Derek? She's, um, she's not alone, right? I mean … tonight, she's not alone tonight?"

"No. She has housemates, she lives with some of the other interns …" Addison must know how he knows this, must know how much time he spent there before she moved to Seattle, but neither of them mentions it. "No," he confirms. "She's not alone."

"Good." Addison looks down at her hands. "She shouldn't be alone tonight."

Then she's silent for a moment and he seizes on the opportunity.

"Let's go inside, Addison." He waits for her to take the hand he's extended, but she doesn't move.

"Addie. You're not dressed, and it's cold."

She looks down at her outfit, if it can be called that – she's wearing his fleece jacket over her pajamas, and wellington boots that could be either of theirs.

"I'm not cold."

"Okay, then." He stands there for a moment, not sure what to do, then eases down onto the porch next to her.

"Derek…" She turns to look at him. "What did you say?" He must look confused because she adds, "when you went there, I mean. To Meredith's. What did you say to her?"

He pauses, buys a little time picking a dried leaf off the cuff of his jacket. She's waiting for his answer.

"You really want to know?"

She studies his face for a moment. "I don't know … do I?"

"Probably not." He stands up, holds out his hand again. "Come on, Addie, let's go inside."

She doesn't move. "Tell me," she says. "Tell me anyway, Derek. What did you say to her?"

"Addison…"

"Let me decide if I want to know, Derek, okay? I woke up and you were gone and now you're here and you went to Meredith's and _said_ things and no, maybe I don't really want to know but I think I might _need_ to know so just … tell me, okay? Tell me what you said to her."

"All right." For a moment, he just breathes quietly, still standing over her. "When I went to Meredith's, I said … I told her that she almost died today."

Addison looks confused. "Didn't she already know that?"

"Yeah, well." He glances down at his hands, then props one of them on the metal pole supporting the meager awning.

Addison looks up at him. "She almost died today? That's what you drove there to tell her?"

"That's what I drove there to tell her."

"And that's all you told her? That she didn't die today?"

He pauses. "I also told her I was glad she didn't die today."

"Right." She nods. "Okay, that's … that makes sense. That's all, and then you left?"

"That was my plan," he says truthfully. "I was turning around, but then …"

Addison regards him, waiting for him to keep talking.

"But then she said something," he finishes.

"She said something." Addison's voice rises just barely, the subtlest of inflections, but it's clear she wants to know what Meredith said. Derek swallows hard.

"She said she couldn't remember …" he looks down at Addison. Her head is tilted, her lips pressed just slightly together like she's prepared to be stoic even though she has no idea what he's going to say. She must just assume it will hurt, and that thought depresses him.

All the more so because it's both likely … and justified.

"She said she couldn't remember the last time we kissed," he says finally.

"Oh," Addison's voice is very small, her head bent toward the toes of her wellington boots now – no, his wellington boots, because he sees the rusted buckle on the left side. Hers are far less used, in better condition. She really only wears them to walk Doc every other morning and the few times he's persuaded her down to the marshy edges of the lake to try to convince her of the property's value.

"Addison," he begins quietly.

"Well, did you?" She asks the question abruptly, still looking at her feet.

"Did I what?"

She raises her head. "Did you remember the last time you kissed her?"

It doesn't seem fair to lie, not now. "Yes. I remembered the last time I kissed her."

"Oh," she says again. "Well, that's … good."

"Addison."

"No, it's good. It's great, actually. It's really…" her voice trails off, and she turns her head away. "…great," she finishes weakly.

Derek releases the metal pole he's been holding and eases himself down onto the porch again. For a moment he just looks at her; when she doesn't turn to him, touches her shoulder. "That was all," he says quietly. "That was all. I left after that."

"You did?" She doesn't turn around.

"I did. I left, drove home, and now I'm … here."

"And now you're here," she echoes.

"I'm here, outside, even though it's late and it's chilly, and it's drizzling, and my wife is wearing my boots …"

He feels her shoulder tense under his hand at the word _wife._

"Addison." He squeezes her shoulder. "Let's go inside."

"Derek?" She turns to look at him, her eyes shining in the low porchlight. It's this way she has of staring at him, pinning him with her eyes: she's done it forever and it makes it impossible to look away, even when he knows it would be wise.

"Yeah."

She pauses as if she's considering whether to speak after all; it's such a familiar tic. If he knows her she'll end up saying it anyway and when her lips part to speak he figures he must at least still know her a bit.

"Derek, do you … do you remember the last time _we_ kissed?"

He exhales, his brow furrowing. "I, uh, I kissed you goodnight … tonight. I'm sure I did." He must have. It's been habit for more than a decade to plant a marital peck on her lips, or vice versa, before they turn out the light. They were doing it even before it was, legally speaking, a marital kiss.

"No." She shakes her head. "Well, yes, I mean, I kissed _you_ goodnight tonight, actually."

"Semantics." He frowns.

"But that's not what I meant, anyway."

"You asked if I remembered the last time we kissed."

"I meant the real last time we kissed. The last time before … " she gestures broadly at the space around them.

"Before Seattle, you mean?"

"Before … everything."

 _Everything._

He thinks about it. Their last kiss. Presumably it was something quick, habitual, maybe even in the hospital as they passed each other in the hallway. But he can't summon a memory, and he doesn't want to think too closely about the night that ended their life in New York. Thinking about that night makes him angry and it doesn't seem right, or fair, to get angry when he's facing the wife who woke up alone and then sat outside waiting for him while he visited Meredith.

Their last kiss, though…

His memory, maybe to protect him, sends their first kiss to the forefront of his mind instead.

That kiss he remembers.

And not just the kiss, either, but everything surrounding it: how many steps they'd walked after the heavy wooden door leading outside from the great gothic building that housed their lab (thirty-two); the weighty, moist Indian summer that clung to the air; the feel of her knapsack brushing his arm as they walked closely together. _Should he offer to carry her books?_ He remembers thinking that and then immediately kicking himself, because it was the eighties, not the fifties, and Mark would die laughing if he knew Derek had even considered it. But he kind of wanted to take the knapsack anyway because then her hands would be free. And he'd been watching her hands in lab and she was so good – quick and clever, but careful. _You have good instincts, Montgomery,_ that's what the professor said that day. _Can't teach those._

He remembers that Addison's hair was scraped back in a high, messy ponytail with one of those puffy fabric hair tie things that he would sometimes see on her wrist when her hair was down in lectures; she was wearing an old Yale sweatshirt and leggings – they always wore old clothes to lab. And she wore canvas tennis shoes, not running shoes, exactly; they were flat blue canvas and there was a safety pin stuck through one of the laces with little colored glass beads on it. She always wore the same shoes to lab and when he had asked about it the pin the week before, she laughed, sounding a little embarrassed, and said _it's a friendship pin, I promised my friend Savvy I wouldn't take it off when we graduated_.

(A friendship pin. God, they were young then.)

He remembers why he paused after thirty-two steps. Addison was wearing running shoes, but he could only see one of them because the other one was still hidden under the blue protective covering they wore on their shoes during lab. They were supposed to take them off and toss them into the trash on the way out of lab. It was the left one.

He remembers that he pointed to the blue protective covering on her left shoe and said, " _you, um, you forgot something_." His memory doesn't edit; every time he's replayed it over the years, he's heard that little hesitation. _You, um,_ that was how he said it. That was how it started. He said it and then she looked down and blushed a little. _I guess I did forget something,_ she said. He said, _I can get it for you, if you …_ and then he stopped talking and she said, _okay._ She said _okay_ and she put her foot out and he crouched down on the stone path – there was a spot of old gum on his right side, a pile of colorful leaves to his left – and he took her sneakered foot in her hand to slip off the covering.

He remembers that she laughed, and then covered her mouth a little with one of her hands when he looked up at her. _Sorry,_ she said, _it's just … I feel kind of like Cinderella, you know, if Cinderella smelled like formaldehyde and had just had her hands in a cadaver at the ball._ He stood up. _That, uh, that would be a pretty screwed up ball._ And she smiled and said, _yeah, I guess it would._

He remembers that as he was standing up, she said _thanks_ , very softly. He still had the crumpled shoe cover in one hand, which couldn't be sanitary but he couldn't exactly throw it out, not when they were standing so close together that that he could make out every individual shade of blue coalescing in her eyes.

He remembers that as he moved even closer, he caught a faint whiff of formaldehyde still clinging to her hair and he would tease her for years afterwards that it was an underrated aphrodisiac.

He remembers that her lips were soft and the kiss was gentle, but it felt like a promise. Like there was a future for them. Like he could spend the rest of his life kissing her and it would always feel like the first time.

He remembers that the kiss tasted minty, a bit like the menthol they wiped under their noses before lab every time and a bit like wintergreen lifesavers, too.

He remembers that she broke the kiss first, and that she laughed a little when she drew back, her eyes hazy, and smiled at him. _That was nice,_ she said. _Nice, huh,_ and he pointed to her tennis shoe and asked, _do you think they make a pin for that?_ She laughed again and shoved him in that teasing way girls do, the way Addison would do many times over the years, suggesting they want to be caught, so that day on the quad he caught her hands and pulled her close and pressed his lips against hers again to see if their second kiss tasted as minty and good as the first one.

He remembers that it did.

"…no," he confesses now, meeting her eyes, figuring he owes her at least that. "I don't remember the, uh, the last time we kissed, Addison. I'm sorry."

"It's okay." She's quite for a few moments before she speaks again. "I do. I remember it."

Her eyes are soft, looking at something he can't see, and he waits.

"Do you remember that thunderstorm?"

He furrows his brow. He has a lot of memories of New York summer storms, the great cracking of thunder and the way the lightening eerily illuminated their bedroom; Addison could sleep through it but he never could. He woke up and watched, every time. Once he woke up and looked over at his wife, sleeping in just one of his old shirts and nothing else – it was so hot that summer – and he couldn't stop himself from waking her up, too; they made love while rain pounded the windows and electricity crackled through their bedroom and drifted back to sleep wearing nothing at all.

"At the hospital," Addison prompts.

He has memories of thunderstorms at the hospital. Peterson, the head of Neuro before Derek got the job, used to call them _brainstorms_ : New Yorkers walk everywhere, even during storms; they walk on rain-slicked subway steps and fall; they walk over sewer grates and skid; they walk across streets blurred by precipitation and get knocked half a block by a taxi that didn't see them.

But there was no thunderstorm right before he left New York, not that he can remember. It was the wrong time of year, anyway, too early for that kind of thing. He glances at Addison and shakes his head.

"The one when the west generator crashed," she prompts.

"Oh. You mean the summer before ... no, two summers before I left New York?" Now he's confused. If that's what she's talking about, that was almost two full years before he caught her with Mark. Almost two full years before he arrived in Seattle. That certainly wasn't the last time they kissed before he left New York. But he lets her continue.

"Right. Two summers before you left New York. Do you remember that?"

"I remember the storm, yes." When the generator crashed, it was brief, organized chaos – it was sticky high summer with August heat penetrating the sterility of the hospital until the backup generator finally rescued them.

"Okay. Well, so you remember the generator crashed and blew out the climate controls in half the ORs. I was in OR 4. We still had lights in there, but no air conditioning. We couldn't hear the storm from in there, but we could tell the minute the AC went off. It was like someone sucked all the air out of the room."

He nods.

"It was hot. We were under the thing, you know and it got so hot, so fast, but I was in the middle of fetal surgery." Her hands rise, lightly, as if she's still guiding the catheter; he's not sure she realizes she's done it. "I was in the middle of repairing a congenital diaphragmatic hernia," she clarifies, "and I didn't want to stop. Chief Wallace came in and said we should stop, there was no need to operate under these conditions. He was sweating right through his scrubs, I remember, while he stood in the OR. But I didn't want to stop. The mother was forty-one, she'd used her last embryo for IVF and she was lying there on the table while I operated on her twenty-two-week-old fetus and she was so scared before she went under and … yeah. I didn't want to stop. So I kept going. A bunch of people started gathering in the gallery to watch – the AC was still pumping up there, so it was a little foggy on the glass but I could still see all the people. And you were one of them."

She pauses, draws breath.

"You were one of them," she repeats. "I was wilting a little by then, starting to question whether staying was a good idea, and then I looked up and saw you and you … you looked a little worried but you looked right at me and you smiled, like … like you were encouraging me. Like, _go for it._ I felt like you believed in me, Derek, that you thought I could do it, and …" She stops talking for a moment, her voice quieter when she picks the story back up, "all of a sudden, it was like someone had just pumped cold air into the OR, and I was just … revived."

She glances at him. "So I kept going. It was still hard – I was sweating and so was everyone else who stayed; I sent the non-essentials out. It was still hard but … every time I looked up, while I was operating, you were there in the gallery. Watching me."

She pauses again, staring out into the distance.

"And then when I finished, you know, it was a success, and I looked up into the gallery after I closed and everyone was applauding – but I didn't see you. You weren't there anymore and I was a little disappointed. But then I pushed open the door to scrub out you were waiting for me in the scrub room with a bottle of cold water and you said _you did it_ and you went to hug me and I said _don't, I'm disgusting,_ and you said, _not to me,_ and then you kissed me. You kissed me and you said, _you do taste a little salty, though._ " She laughs a bit at the memory, then wipes her hand across her eyes. "That's it. I, uh, I scrubbed out and … we went home. That's the whole story."

It's not the whole story. He remembers the rest of the story. They stripped off their sweaty garments and stood together under a cool shower in the master bathroom of their brownstone. He pressed the back of his hand to her cheek as water flowed over both of them, concerned she was still overheated, and she said _stop worrying about me and …_ but instead of finishing the sentence, she just pushed him against the marble shower wall, blue eyes glowing with intent.

And he remembers that when they were done, they laughed and then Addison said _so much for cooling off,_ and he said, _I guess-_

"I guess we'll just have to do it all over again."

The words echo in the quiet night, and Derek is confused. He didn't realize he'd spoken them out loud.

Then he looks at Addison and realizes she's the one who said it.

"That was a good night," she says quietly, focused somewhere out across the property again.

He nods. "That was a good night."

She looks up at him. "You loved me, that night."

"I did love you that night."

"And you worried about me."

"I worried about you."

She twists her hands in her lap. "You didn't worry about me today, Derek."

"You weren't in danger today."

She considers this.

"Come inside, Addie." He holds out his hand for the third time.

"Not yet." She's looking at something he can't see, again. "You go ahead, honey. Go, it's fine. "

He hesitates for a moment before he nods and walks past her, around her, and reaches for the screen door. He glances back then and she looks small and hunched on the porch, her arms drawn tightly around her knees now that she thinks he can't see her. He knew she was cold, even if she wouldn't admit it.

She glances up with surprise as his weight settles on the porch next to her.

"Why are you …"

"…still here?" he finishes for her.

He rests his hands on his knees before he answers. "I don't know, Addison. I … guess I am worried about you after all."

She glances over at him.

"When I first pulled up, when I was sitting in the car and I saw you on the porch … I, uh, I thought you were a bear," he admits, not really sure why he's telling her this.

"A bear." She grimaces. "Thank you, for that. I may not be as thin as I was in medical school, Derek, but …"

"It was your shadow," he says patiently. "Your shadow was bigger, and it was dark."

"Oh. And then … you were disappointed when you realized it was me and not a bear?"

Her tone isn't sharp; it's resigned, even amused.

"No," he says. "Relieved. I mean, I thought I was going to have to fight the bear. I was getting ready to fight the bear."

"Fight the bear." She cocks her head at him. "But you were in your car. Why wouldn't you just drive away?"

"…because you were sleeping inside the trailer."

"No, I wasn't."

"Right, but I thought you were. How could I just drive away when you were sleeping inside the trailer? And leave the bear outside?"

"Oh." She considers this. "So you were going to fight the bear."

"I was going to fight the bear."

"Do you have a gun?" she asks with some interest.

"Addison, do I seem like someone who would keep a gun in his car?"

"No. But I didn't used to think you seemed like a flannel-wearing, wood-chopping fisherman at all, so …"

"Point taken." He leans back. "No, I don't have a gun. But I do have a horn and – I can make a lot of noise."

"You were going to play music and – what, yell at the bear?"

"Not that kind of a horn," he says patiently. "An air horn, you know, to scare the bear. To drive it away. And noise – clanging, to distract it. So it would leave the trailer alone."

"So it wouldn't eat me, you mean?"

He nods.

"You were going to fight a bear for me?"

"Well … yes, I guess I was."

"Oh." She mulls this over for a moment. "But a bear couldn't get into the trailer." She sounds a lot less confident after she glances over at him. "Derek … _could_ a bear get into the trailer?"

"I'm not sure."

She looks horrified.

"The point," he says hurriedly, "is that we didn't have to find out."

"No, the point," she corrects him, "is that you neglected to tell me until now that we live in a death trap!"

"So you admit you live here, then." He nudges her slightly with his shoulder. "You're not just visiting to write a report for the board of health on the sanitary dangers of trailer living?"

"No." She's looking out at the land, then she glances at him. "I'm not just visiting. I didn't exactly sign on to be bear food, but … I'm not just visiting."

"Good."

She glances at him. "Really?"

He nods.

For a long moment she's quiet, and then she sighs. "Thank you for fighting the bear for me," she says quietly, and leans just slightly over so her head is resting on his shoulder.

"But there was no bear," he reminds her, covering the cold hand on her knee with one of his.

"Shh." She reaches up to touch his lips with her fingers. "Just … let me have this one, okay?"

So he does.

* * *

 _Reviews make my stubborn, Addek-loving heart sing! If you enjoyed this one, I hope you'll let me know and tell me why. This episode is a tough one for Addek; we have to see Addison, genuinely relieved to see Derek, run into his arms while Adele informs Richard from roughly ten feet away that Derek was actually looking for Meredith. Sigh. And then, at the end, Derek and Meredith recall their last kiss (lavender!) and then Derek walks away. If he and Addison didn't interact afterwards, I can see Derek just mulling all night about lavender. So I flipped it until they did interact. I think Derek needs to be needed, and they could have taken a tiny step toward reconciliation if Addison, too, needed him to reminisce about their relationship that night. Maybe._

 _Have you thought of other scenes or episodes you think would make a good flip? Let me know that too! And thank you, again, for reading and commenting and keeping Addek alive in 2017. Hot buttered rum for everyone!_

Title, of course, comes from R.E.M.'s _It's the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine)._


	7. Lady of the Day

**A/N:** Welcome back to Flip the Script! Sorry for the long delay between chapters. For some reason the Catherine Deneuve episode was much trickier than I expected - and it turned out far differently than I'd planned, too. I'm learning that I can't really predict the tone of these ... they sort of just happen. Thank you so much for your reviews, comments, and ideas for more flips. Please keep them coming! I'm going to get the next chapter up a lot faster. I'm keeping track of all your requests, but if you have more, please let me know.

 **Many thanks to LS,** whose idea it was to [redacted; see notes at the end of the story].

So, Catherine Deneuve episode: a lighthearted concept in a rather sad episode. We all know it's the one where Addison's patient's husband tells her she looks like a young Catherine Deneuve, and then proceeds to creep on her a little, and Addison is flattered and then seeks him out again and once his baby is born he's totally distracted and forgets all about her. And Derek figures out that he was indifferent and absent toward the end of his marriage, and tells her. It's actually a very neatly wrapped episode in that way. So I decided to flip the end. As in, Derek comes home, but Addison isn't lying in bed reading in those cute little glasses...

* * *

 **Lady of the Day  
** _(2.20, "Bandaid Covers the Bullet Hole")_

The scraping sound of his key in the lock is unmistakable, followed by the sound of rattling.

Mentally, she curses. Several times.

(Creative curses, the ones she's not sure she could ever say out loud.)

"Addison?" She hears him calling her name, and a then a few knocks on the outside of the trailer. "The bolt must be on. Come unlatch it."

She doesn't answer. It's not that it's early … but it's earlier than she expected him.

He knocks again, louder this time.

"Addison!"

Her car is parked in the grass; he'll know she's here. Maybe he'll think she fell asleep, and leave.

Except he's just getting louder, and sleeping through it isn't exactly believable.

Tentatively she walks toward the noise.

"Addison …" he calls through the door, apparently hearing her footsteps. "I think the bolt's on."

"I know," she admits.

"You _know_?"

"Yeah, can you, um, go away for a little while?"

"Not really, no, I can't." He's not bothering to hide the sarcasm in his voice. "Open the door, Addison."

She doesn't say anything. He rattles the door again, harder this time. "What are you doing in there? Open the door."

"Nothing, just … don't come in yet."

He raises his voice. "Addison … open the door!"

"Don't yell at me!"

She can actually hear him sigh through the door, and can tell he's forcibly collecting himself. "Okay. Addison … what's the problem here. You have poison oak again? Because I'm pretty desensitized to it at this point…"

She doesn't answer.

"Addison, this is ridiculous. I've had a long day. Just open the door, please."

"If I do, you have to promise not to laugh," she says in a very small voice.

"I have to … okay, fine," he shakes his head.

Very slowly, she slides back the latch.

"Finally." His tone is annoyed as he pushes the door firmly open, causing her to take a step back. He runs a hand through his damp hair – it's drizzling out there, and takes off his wet coat.

He doesn't look at her until he's finished with his routine.

"Was that really necessary, Addison? You were getting dressed, that's the big deal?"

Getting dressed?

Oh … she can see why he would think that.

She glances down at her outfit, if you can call it that: a matching white satin bra and panty set with garters hanging loose. She went so far as to drive by a vintage store recommended in her Seattle shopping guide, but decided authenticity was less important than hygiene when it came to lingerie. So it's not actually antique, but it's reasonably appropriate for the era: the panties are almost comically high waisted with thick satin panels – which is a nice change from having to think about holding in her stomach, actually – and the bra is a bit more sculpted than one she'd normally choose, and longer-line, but altogether it's a lot less uncomfortable than she expected.

Physically, that is.

Mentally, she's not very comfortable at all.

Derek is pouring a drink. He sees her looking at him. "What?"

She doesn't say anything.

"Addison … please don't make me play Guess the Flip Out tonight. It's late, I had back-to-back surgeries today, you locked me out of my trailer in the rain…"

He stops talking and there's a moment of uncomfortable silence between them where neither one looks at the other. Almost unconsciously, Addison rubs at the flesh of one of her bare upper arms.

"…so can you save us some time and just tell me what you're flipping out about so I can go to bed?"

At his impatient look she gestures toward the bed.

He shakes his head. "Addison. What am I supposed to be looking at?"

"My laptop."

"…your laptop." He sighs with exaggerated patience.

"I rented _Belle de Jour_ ," she continues, determinedly not meeting his eye, "and I was watching it on my laptop, and drinking champagne and wearing _this_ …" she gestures at her newly purchased lingerie, "because I'm ridiculous."

"Ah." He takes a calm sip of his drink. "Well, that explains why you're flipping out. It's very logical, I should have guessed."

"Derek … " She sighs, knowing she deserves his sarcastic impatience but a little stung by it nonetheless. "I drove to a freaking _Blockbuster_ , I had to call information to find it and then I got lost because this city is a maze, and then when I finally found it I had to spell _Belle de Jour_ ten times for the snotty teenager behind the counter while he stared at my legs."

"You can't really blame the kid for being an opportunist," Derek observes mildly.

She glares at him. "My point is, I'm ridiculous. I think I have reached peak ridiculous. I'm almost forty-"

"You're thirty-nine."

"That's almost forty."

"Not when your birthday was three months ago, it's not."

"Well, I'm thirty-nine then, and I got lost on the way to Blockbuster and I'm … all because I wanted it to be true," she confesses, shaking her head at herself.

He looks confused again. "You wanted what to be true?"

"That I, uh, that I look like her. Catherine Deneuve," she reminds him.

"Oh. Why?" He sounds genuinely curious, maybe wondering if this is one of those girl things he never seems to understand and teases her about, like when she asks him if a skirt makes her look fat or tries to get him to agree that Mark's patients' boob jobs are too fake to be sexy. She can't tell if he remembers their conversation from earlier. He certainly didn't seem to be paying too much attention at the time.

"Because I … because it was … nice."

"What was nice?"

"The attention, Derek. The attention was nice."

"Addison."

She lifts a hand. "Please don't say it. I know how it sounds, and I'm humiliated enough."

"Addison…"

"I'm just … I'm lonely, Derek. I don't really see you – I'm not nagging," she says hastily, "just stating a fact, and I don't really see anyone else, because I don't have any friends, so yeah. I'm lonely. And then some … guy, some patient's husband who's freaking out with the new-dad thing says I look like Catherine Deneuve and I'm _just_ lonely enough and just _sad_ enough that yeah, it made me happy. And I had lunch with him. With a patient's husband. Lunch. God, I'm _ridiculous_."

She looks up at him with the beginning of tears in her eyes; with some effort, she fights them back. "This isn't how it's supposed to go. You're not supposed to see me like this."

"It's a little late for that, Addison. I've seen you flip out before. Plenty of times."

"Those times were different."

"Why?"

"Because they were before!"

Before Mark. Before Meredith.

Exasperated, she flops back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.

"Addison." She feels the bed dip as he sits down next to her supine body. "So you had lunch with a patient's husband. Is that so terrible?"

"Yes. It is."

"Why-"

"Bailey saw me, and … and everyone saw me."

"So? Why is that so terrible?"

"It's terrible because I went to see them again, Derek," she sits up on her elbows but avoids his gaze, "my patient and her husband, I mean, and I actually … well, let's just say that now he's paying attention to his wife and his new baby and I'm … well, I'm thirty-nine and ridiculous and my husband hates me and the weather in Seattle makes my hair look like I've been electrocuted and I'm going to have to figure out a way to find that Blockbuster again so I can return this very disturbing movie."

She runs the back of her hand along her eye, trying not to ruin her makeup.

"Is that all?"

She blinks. "What do you mean?"

"That's a pretty short list of complaints, considering the source," he explains. "You forgot to mention how annoying it is that no one dresses up to fly anymore, or that you don't like the way I drive, or how much you hate when I throw my shirts over the chair."

"Well … there's no room in the trailer for a chair, so you don't do that anymore."

"See, I'm cured! All those years of nagging me and all we really needed to do was move into a trailer."

She sniffs a little.

"And you didn't notice my eye makeup," she says in a small voice.

"Your eye … ." He shakes his head. "First of all, I don't know anything about eye makeup. I don't think I've noticed your eye makeup in sixteen years, and Addison, I went to therapy with you, I _am_ trying, but if you're waiting for me to notice your eye makeup, I don't think that's the right hill to die on. And second of all, even if I did know anything about eye makeup … I wasn't exactly looking at your eyes when I walked in tonight."

"You weren't?" She can't help sounding a little hopeful as she pushes herself up to sit all the way up; he helps pull her the last few inches.

"No, I wasn't." He shakes his head with a slight smile and reaches out to lift the end of one of the garters. "It's, uh, it's nice. It's a nice … outfit."

It's her turn to smile a little bit. "It's, well, it's supposed to look vintage, you know." As was the carefully applied cat's eye liquid liner, but she's feeling sane enough to admit it would have been asking too much for him to notice that.

"Because Catherine Deneuve is …"

"…vintage," she finishes miserably. "I mean, now she is, or … I don't know. Classic. Or whatever."

He's suddenly really smiling, looking amused and nostalgic at the same time as he clearly remembers something she can't see.

"Derek?"

"She, uh, well, you reminded me when you said _classic._ " He pauses. "Remember when I told you about what Mark and I found in my parents' garage when I was twelve?"

"Yes, and I still can't believe your father left those lying around."

"In fairness, they weren't exactly _lying around_ ; that's just the excuse we used when we got caught. They were hidden under a case of gardening tools, a broken sled, and about ten boxes of outgrown baby clothing. We had to be very strategic to find them. I take it your father didn't collect classic Playboys…."

"No, he was content with classic mistresses."

"Right." Derek grimaces. "Anyway, your friend Catherine … well. She had a very classic, um, spread. Picture. You know what I mean."

Addison makes a face.

Derek moves his hand, jogging the bed, and her laptop wakes up from sleep mode. Derek looks at the screen for a moment and Addison is reminded that the film is paused on a very interesting moment. Derek looks from the screen to Addison's blushing face. "What exactly is this movie about?"

"It's, uh, I don't know." She reaches to close the laptop but he stops her with a hand on hers.

"Wait," he says.

"What are you doing?"

"Just picturing her on that bearskin rug. Bear?" He looks lost in the memory. "I know it was brown and white. I can see it and, um, but are bears brown and white? It might have been a cow. Are there cowskin rugs?"

"You remember that rug from twenty-five years ago, Derek, and when I wanted you to help me pick out a rug for the library in the brownstone you said you didn't know anything about them."

"That rug was different. It was a very good rug."

"I guess I should have bought a rug instead of renting this movie." She glances at the screen, still frozen on pause. "Actually … it's pretty much just a lot of screwing. Disturbing screwing. And, I'm sure, really excellent filmmaking and it's supposed to be brilliant or whatever, but you know that subtitles-"

"-give you a headache," he finishes for her.

She presses play and for a moment or two they watch, both of them wincing when –

"I think that's a dream sequence," Addison says quickly. "At least, I hope so. She might be a prostitute, though. Do you know the French word for prostitute?"

"I do not know the French word for prostitute."

She pauses the film again, on a closeup of the actress's face.

Derek peers at the screen. "I can see it."

"…you can?"

"Sure. The eyes. And the…" he gestures vaguely toward the shape of her face. "Not the outfit, of course, but the … amount of clothing does seem to line up, at least."

She winces slightly.

Derek glances at the screen again. "But, you know, she's blonde," he adds, echoing his earlier statement when he brushed her off at the hospital.

"I've been blonde," Addison admits suddenly, not really sure why.

He looks confused. "No, you haven't."

"I have." She nods firmly at his look of disbelief. "I dyed my hair blonde. The, uh, the day after you left New York."

His brow furrows. "You what?"

"I dyed my hair … blonde," she repeats.

"Why?"

"Because … it was the day after you left New York."

He's just looking at her.

"I needed a change," she says. "Change is, um, I thought it would be good and maybe like a fresh start or something, I don't know," she knows she's babbling now, nervously, but doesn't grasp the danger of that for a few more words, "so I thought if I changed my hair that might help so I dyed it blonde and Mark was totally horrified-"

She stops talking immediately, realizing what she's said, and just fiddles with one of the untied garters, avoiding Derek's eyes.

"Mark saw your hair." Derek's tone is cold.

"I worked with him."

"Addison," he says impatiently.

She nods slightly. "Yeah, Mark saw my hair." He's staring at her. "I needed a change," she whispers.

"A change." He shakes his head.

"It was just a few times," she says faintly, desperately, even though she can feel herself digging in deeper. He doesn't need the whole story, not yet. It will hurt him too, that's what she tells herself. She's protecting both of them. Or lying to both of them, she's not sure. Her stomach clenches.

"I was … lonely."

"You're always lonely, Addison."

It stings, and for a moment she just lets the pain wash over her. It's not that it's undeserved – or even untrue – just that it hurts, a dull ache behind her eyes, the way only someone who truly knows you can hurt you.

She wants to say _No I'm not, I wasn't lonely before, not when you noticed me, not when you came home, not when we were still Addison and Derek,_ but she sits there mute instead, guilt gnawing at the edges of her memory.

Derek is staring past her shoulder. It's a while before he speaks again. "Are you still with him?"

"No, of course not! Derek, you saw what happened when he was here a few weeks ago. How could you ask that?"

"I don't know, Addison, I'm learning a lot of new things about you tonight. You apparently kept on screwing Mark after I left, you've been _blonde,_ " he grimaces.

"Which one is worse?" She braces for him to yell at her for trying to lighten the moment but he studies her face for a moment instead.

"Honestly … the blonde," he says finally. "I don't think you could pull it off."

She laughs a little. "You're right about that."

"So you didn't look like Catherine Deneuve?"

"No, I looked like a Swedish clown in drag. Or at least that's what Mark said, and then he laughed at me for like an hour."

Derek makes a sound almost like a chuckle and she pretends to be offended, enjoying the lightness and closeness for a moment before they fall quiet again.

The rest is more Derek doesn't need to know: that she cried the entire time Mark laughed and he couldn't comfort her because Mark only knew how to comfort her with sex and he refused to have sex with her while she looked like … then he relented, of course, and had sex with her anyway even though she was a soggy mess at that point, right before he called his salon to book an emergency appointment.

But somehow, even with what she hasn't said, it feels good to laugh about it, together.

"I dyed it back the next day," she says.

"That's not much of a change, then."

"It turns out it wasn't what I needed." She glances at him. "A change, I mean."

"What did you need?"

"I needed you, Derek," she admits.

"…after trying on Mark for size," he says coolly.

"You tried on Meredith for size," she says tentatively. "I know I messed up, Derek, I know that. We both had relationships outside the marriage but now we're back and it's us. Or at least, I hope it's us."

He doesn't respond.

"Mark … he was like the blonde hair dye, Derek. He was what I thought I needed to make a change but actually just ended up making me feel worse."

"Mark is blonde hair dye." Derek shakes his head. "What does that make me?"

"You…" She touches his arm. "You're the color my hair was _after_ we fixed it."

"I'm red," he says doubtfully.

"Yes, red, but not exactly the same red as before, because, you know, it can't ever be exactly the same as before, even though I brought them a picture of my hair from before. All the different shading and highlights and that stuff – it makes it a little different. But actually, it was even better once they'd fixed the color - a little brighter, a little deeper, just that tiny bit different. Turns out that was the only change I needed."

She glances at him uncertainly.

"This metaphor is stretching very thin," he says drily.

"Really? Because I could do more."

"Oh, I bet you could."

"Is it helping?" She tries to sound like she's joking but her heart is thumping.

"It is not helping."

But his lips are quirking into something almost like a smile.

"I'll dye it back," she says hastily, "I'll dye it blonde again tomorrow and look like an idiot, I'll look like a Swedish drag clown, if it will make you like me again." Her voice trails off as she curses herself for sounding so stupid, so desperate.

Derek doesn't say anything for a moment. "What picture did you show them?"

"What?"

"You said you showed them a picture, at the … salon. To get your hair right. And then the color was better than it ever was."

"Oh." She feels herself blushing. "Well … it was a wedding picture, actually. The, um, that one of us that was on the library table."

"Huh." He cocks his head. "You did look pretty good that day."

"That was a good day," she says softly.

"Yeah." He studies her for a moment, quietly, then moves the laptop over between them and presses play. "All right, let's see who your alter ego screws next."

* * *

 _Reviews keep the Addek Revolution alive! Viva!_

 **Credit to LS for suggesting Addison tell Derek she dyed her hair blonde after he left her in New York.** I love that idea and somehow it snowballed into Mark, Derek kind of figuring things out but not getting the whole story, and both of them managing to laugh a little even though they're far from fixed and maybe even far from happy. I think they're at their best when they can do that.

And both _Belle de Jour_ and Catherine Deneuve's classic Playboy photoshoot came out around the time Addison and Derek were born. The perfect time for a busy dad of four to start squirreling away his girlie mags, which of course Mark and Derek found later because they're Mark and Derek. I would expect Derek to associate Catherine Deneuve with that shoot, while Addison would be more likely to associate her with the movie (and her iconic white lingerie). All of this is easily searchable if you want visuals, but much of it is NSFW.


	8. Roll Credits

**A/N:**...and here's the Catherine Deneuve flip I _didn't_ post (yet), where they talk about some other hard things, too Don't hate me for posting a new flip of the same episode! I mentioned in the last chapter I went back and forth a lot with tone for this flip; I had most of a story left once I finished the one you've already read, so ... here's that story. I promise not to post two versions of every flip! But here's another way that episode could have flipped...

* * *

 **Roll Credits** _  
(2.20, "Bandaid Covers the Bullet Hole")_

His patient's words are echoing in his head while he speaks, so softly – mumbling, even – that he's not exactly sure what he's saying.

"I was just ... indifferent towards you."

 _I stopped noticing her._

"I was absent."

 _I stopped seeing her._

"I'm sorry. I'm … working on it."

"Okay," Addison says quietly. When he looks up she's smiling, or at least her mouth is. Her eyes, even in the low light, hold a combination of surprise, confusion, and even a flicker of fear. He wonders for a moment what she thought he was going to say when he first stretched out on the bed before her.

He doesn't ask, just sits up and starts to take off his shoes. Then he turns back to her; she's put her glasses back on and she's reading again, the ends of her long hair brushing the page like they always do.

"You do look like her," he says abruptly. "I can … I can see it. Even if you're not blonde."

She takes her glasses off again and stares at him. "Derek…?" She sounds uncertain.

"Catherine Deneuve," he clarifies. "I mean, I just pictured her on that bearskin rug when you asked before, but, uh … the eyes. I do see it."

Her brow furrows. "It doesn't matter."

"You asked me," he points out. "Today, when you-"

"Just forget it."

He moves backwards on the bed just enough that he can sit and still see her. _Forget it_ hasn't gotten them anything more than … well, here.

"I saw you today," he says tentatively.

"What do you mean?" Her tone is wary.

"You know, with the…" his voice trails off. "Your friend," he says, trying for lightness and regretting it when her face darkens.

"Was that when you were having lunch with Meredith?"

At his surprised expression, she exhales an almost-amused breath. "The glass works both ways, Derek."

"We weren't having lunch," he corrects, "we ran into each other on the catwalk and…"

"…and shared a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich? Derek, I know you. I was your girlfriend once, remember? She's not the only one you've wooed with half a PB&J."

"I'm not _wooing_ her," he says stiffly. "We're … friends."

"Friends." She shakes her head. "Okay. So you saw me with my … friend, what's the issue?"

"I guess there's no issue."

"I guess not." She closes the journal she's been reading. "I'm going to bed, if you don't have any other accusations, or quasi-apologies…"

"That was an apology, not a quasi-apology."

"It was an admission, maybe, but it wasn't an apology."

"I'm not doing this with you tonight." He pushes himself toward the end of the bed.

"Doing what?"

She always asks. She always knows what she's doing, but she always asks. There aren't many surprises after eleven years of marriage.

(Not even the moment he found her with Mark; he knew before he opened the door.)

"I said I was sorry. I _said_ I was working on it."

"Working on what, Derek? Being here? It's so hard to … be near me?" She shakes her head. "Is it any wonder I jump at the chance to have lunch with someone who actually _wants_ to pay attention to me?"

"Wait – lunch?" He frowns. "I saw you in the hallway, not the cafeteria."

"Well, we had lunch too," she says stiffly.

"You and..."

"...my, uh, my patients husband," she admits.

"And yet you attack me for having lunch with Meredith."

"I thought you didn't _have lunch_ with her?"

"Oh, would you just –" he stops talking and starts undressing, ready to put the day behind him.

He doesn't talk to her again until he's dressed for sleep and then he sits down on the end of the bed. She doesn't meet his eyes.

"I didn't _sleep_ with the guy I had lunch with," she says, her voice shaking slightly.

"I didn't sleep with Meredith today," he says casually, even when he sees her posture stiffen. "And of course you didn't sleep with that man, what's the fun of a stranger without any ties to me?"

"God, Derek." She shakes her head. "Everything really is about you, isn't it? Just forget it." She turns over on her pillow, ignoring him.

 _Gladly._ He starts to crawl past her on his knees, the rather undignified way whoever gets stuck with the wall side has to get into bed in the trailer, and then stops.

 _Forget it,_ that's what they're not supposed to be doing. It's not fair that insight is so much easier than action.

"Addison…" He lowers to his knees, close enough to touch her. For a long moment he studies her curled form, listening to the breathy exhales she's always made when she's not happy with him. He knelt in front of her once on a petal pink carpet, the one week the cherry blossom trees bloomed in Central Park, he opened a box and asked a question and when she answered her cheeks were as pink as the flowers.

He never used to not notice her. He noticed her too much, if anything: during class, when they should be studying, through every clinical, even when his resident yelled at him for not paying attention. He'd catch sight of her later, when she'd traded scrubs for elegant dresses and heels, flying past him in the hallways en route to the delicate surgeries only she could perform, and a flush would start in his face and work its way downward. _She's mine,_ that's what he would think.

He always noticed her then.

She rolls onto her back, sitting halfway up; true to form, she could always tell when he was watching her. "What?"

In her new position, the silky cream-colored fabric of her pajamas has slipped a little, revealing an eyeful of creamy skin that was previously covered.

"Nothing," he says.

"What are you doing?"

"You really want to know?"

She narrows her eyes. "Just tell me."

"Picturing you on a bearskin rug."

"Derek!" She sits up a little more, her tone not quite convincingly offended.

"Don't." He holds up a hand as if he's concentrating very hard, eyes still closed. "Don't ruin it."

She doesn't say anything for a few moments, then asks a question with a raised eyebrow – his eyes are still closed, but he doesn't need open eyes to know when she's raising her eyebrows. "Is that why you liked me, Derek, when we met? You were hoping I'd pose on a bearskin rug?"

He opens his eyes to see her half-smiling, half-pouting. "No, I can't say I made the connection back then … sorry."

She seems still to be waiting for an answer. He doesn't have to guess the question, not really.

"Why did I like you?"

She nods very slightly to confirm.

"Oh, let me count the ways," he starts by teasing her, and when a look of hurt flashes across her features, just for a moment, he moves on. "You were smart. Very smart. And you yelled at me the first day of gross anatomy for bumping your wrist when you were trying to hold it steady and so I knew you wouldn't let me get away with anything. And you were wearing a concert t-shirt-"

"-you know that was my brother's."

"I know that _now_ ," he corrects her. "But I didn't then, which is a good thing, because I don't think Archer would have gone out with me anyway. And … you looked great in your goggles."

"Really," she says doubtfully.

"Really. They, uh, they brought out your cheekbones. Especially when you'd take them off and have those nice deep lines…" He gestures to his own face, indicating where the marks would be.

"I have impressionable skin!" she protests defensively.

"Ah, now _that_ is definitely true … I didn't learn that for a few months, though… " He pauses, remembering. "Very impressionable," he adds, and is pleased to see her blush, just a little.

"Addison…" He touches her hand. "You don't need to have lunch with your patient's husband. You have a husband of your own."

Her face flushes again, with embarrassment this time. It is, in his experience, an altogether different shade of pink. He rests a hand on her leg, waiting for her to look at him again.

"I do," she says uncertainly, not quite a question mark but not quite _not_ one either.

"You do," he confirms."

"You're not wearing your ring, though." Her voice cracks.

He looks down at his bare left hand. "I know."

"Are you-"

He closes his eyes briefly. "I have to take things at my own pace, Addie."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. You don't have to be sorry." He sits back a little bit. Somehow, talking about this isn't as hard as he thought it would be.

"You … still have it?" she asks.

Eleven years. Eleven places he pulled over considering whether to throw it, from dusty rural roads to roaring highways to the achingly deep bodies of water he'd only seen in geography books until then. He considered Lake Michigan, but when he drove away the ring was still on his finger. By the time he reached the Wyoming salt flats, the ring was in the breast pocket of his jacket. He closed his fingers around it but couldn't throw it. By the time he crossed the Washington State border the ring was crumpled in a fast food napkin buried in the pocket of his suitcase.

He never threw it anywhere. He's not really sure why he didn't, but he didn't.

She doesn't need to know all that; he just nods. "I still have it."

The long column of her throat moves as she swallows hard, and he can see her trying to maintain her composure. "You're not .. saying never, though…?"

He shakes his head. "I'm not saying never."

She's touching his hand, tracing the strip of skin where his ring would go, and he holds very still; for some reason feeling that moving might startle her.

"Derek?"

"Yeah."

"We could, um, we could have lunch tomorrow…." Her voice is tentative, and then it trails off, like he's already disappointed her.

What was that his mother used to say? _Love is a verb._ It always confused him, especially during his more pedantic teenaged years. Of course it's a verb, and a noun too – so what?

She meant something else by it; she must have. His mother didn't do a lot of random pontificating; her pearls of wisdom were doled out rarely, sometimes with ceremony, and never for no reason. She knew something about relationships, didn't she? After all, she was married for twenty-two years. With a slight chill that sometimes accompanies this sort of math, he realizes that his mother wasn't that much older than Derek is now when she lost her husband.

He glances up at Addison, who's still gazing at him expectantly, waiting for his answer.

"I can't have lunch with you tomorrow," he says quietly.

She doesn't react at all, other than blinking; her face is a steady mask. He wishes he knew her a little less well, in this moment, so he wouldn't have to know how much work went into maintaining that kind of control.

"Okay," she whispers.

"Because I'm operating at noon," he continues. "But … I can have breakfast."

Something flickers in her eyes; it's clear she wasn't expecting that.

"If you want," he adds. "And we can pick somewhere outside, since I know the rain is so good for your hair…"

The corner of her mouth twitches. "My hair hates Seattle," she admits.

"What about you?" He holds her gaze. "Do you hate Seattle?" She must. Everything about her screams New York, and not one inch of her suggests trailer life could ever be acceptable, no matter how beautiful the scenery. And even though half of him thinks she deserves it and more, the other half sometimes finds him wincing in unwelcome sympathy when he remembers that she left her friends and her practice behind, the home she painstakingly decorated more times than he needed or could count, and squeezed her larger-than-life self into his tiny trailer.

For him.

There's something about her willingness to do what could only feel like debasing herself that tugs at him – not at his heartstrings, where it probably should, but more at the corner of his nerves most of the time. After eleven years of marriage, it's natural – maybe unavoidable – to define themselves in terms of each other: her loneliness in Seattle, her discomfort … it reflects back on him.

Blindingly, sometimes.

"Do I hate Seattle? …no. Well, maybe. I don't know, I guess." She breaks eye contact, looking down at her hands. "It's not New York. But New York wasn't really the same after you left anyway so … I guess I'd hate Seattle if you weren't here."

"I am here, though."

"Yeah, you are." She exhales audibly. "So … I am too."

"So … breakfast."

"Breakfast." She nods. "Okay. So, my Best of Seattle guide suggested -"

"Oh, no, I'm choosing."

"But you have to choose something I'll like," she protests. "Not … freshly caught trout a la hair dryer or … pick your own poisonous mushrooms."

He frowns. "Do you even know how to identify poisonous mushrooms?"

"Don't start," she warns him. "The poison oak was bad enough. You have to choose something-"

"-you'll like. I know. I also know what you like."

The place he picks … she likes.

She doesn't admit it right away, of course, but it's no mystery, not really; he can tell from her face the moment she sees it, but he lets her pretend to be taking her time to decide anyway.

He's selected a little café close enough to the harbor to feel indulgent, but not so far from the hospital that it feels impractical. For himself, the food is locally grown, harvested, or caught. For Addison, the plates are delicate china, there's hand-laid tile in the wrought iron bistro table, and Zagat's coughed up sufficient accolades. There's a French press between them emitting delicious-smelling steam, and not a trout in sight.

Even the weather is cooperating – by Seattle standards, anyway, sending down nothing more than a fine mist that feels almost cleansing.

"So?" Derek tears a piece of warm baguette. "I'm waiting for your critique."

She purses her lips. "Not bad," she admits.

There's a fresh strawberry speared on her fork, halfway to her mouth; he reaches out and without a word redirects it into his own.

"Derek," she scolds as he swallows, but she's smiling as she gestures toward his plate. "You do have your own, you know."

"I know. But yours taste better."

It's an exchange they've had hundreds of times. He just smiles and lifts the fragrant carafe to pour more coffee, refilling Addison's cup first.

Their ending may not have been written yet, but he's still her costar.

* * *

 _It's cheating to post two flips for the same episode, I know. Also, this one has two scenes, which is cheating again! I wanted to share anyway, because I thought some of you might like it - there are a lot of ways to flip these episodes, as I'm seeing the more I do on this project! Curious about your thoughts on this flip compared to the last one, too. Thank you, as always, for reviewing and sharing your thoughts!_


	9. Just Enough

**A/N:** I should stop telling you in my author's notes that the story took a different turn than I expected, and just figure it's a given. Addison and Derek have minds of their own sometimes, what can I say? This popped into my head and forced me to write it. Please let me know what you think, and keep sending me prompts and ideas please!

So, this flip comes from an episode I love, _Much Too Much,_ when the quints are born and, as someone noted, Derek watches Addison running the OR and delivering all the quints with a really lovely, even appreciative look on his face, and Addison seems to notice. This episode also comes between two key Addek episodes, 2.09 (Thanksgiving) and 2.12 (Christmas).

...and then the episode ends, of course. So here's a flip that takes place right after the surgery that closed out the episode...

* * *

 **Just Enough _  
_** _(2.10, "Much Too Much")_

"That was amazing," he says.

Addison's lips curl upwards. "It was?"

"Yeah, it was." Derek scrubs his hands at the sink, remembering the way she commanded the OR with precision and focus, all five color-coded teams waiting for her instruction and leadership. And now five tiny humans are breathing in the NICU because of her skills.

"Well … thanks," she says quietly, pressing the lever to rinse her own hands. It's just the two of them now; everyone else has scrubbed out and cleared off.

He glances at her. "What are you thinking for the other four?"

She considers the question. "Emily's going to have the hardest road, probably – but if anyone can help her, it's Preston."

"Preston," he repeats.

"…Burke," she finishes his name, seeming confused.

"Oh. That Preston. He makes me call him Dr. Burke."

"That _is_ his name," she reminds him.

"But you call him Preston."

"Well, that's also his name." She pushes flyaway hair behind her ears.

"And he calls you Addison…?"

"…which is my name. Derek." She scans his face. "Is everything okay?"

"Everything's okay."

"Okay," she says slowly. "Good."

In his head, he hears her uncertain tone as she trailed him down the hall that morning.

 _You're sure that's all? Nothing's wrong?_

Then, with some shame tugging at the corners of his memory, he feels her lips on his, the softness of her body pressing into him, her almost-giddy tone. _That was amazing,_ she said, and there was more than giddiness to her voice – there was relief too, and then _he_ was the relieved one, because she couldn't see into his head and know that his mind had betrayed her.

"Addison…"

She reaches for the safety pin holding her rings to her scrub top. Just above the pocket, where they've always sat during surgery, ever since he first placed them on her finger.

Her voice is soft and a little anxious when she responds. "Yes?" Then her gaze shifts and she seems to see where he's looking. "Derek…"

..

"Derek!"

She's flying down the hall into his arms and he catches her automatically, lifting her off her feet with the force of her embrace.

"I did it!" she cries.

"You did it?" He sets her down to look at her face. "Really?"

"Really." She beams. "My first time flying solo."

"You're amazing." He kisses her. "Amazing," he repeats, kissing her again. "How did it feel?"

"It felt ... amazing," she giggles.

"Addie, I'm so disappointed I missed it. I wish I could have watched, but I was holding the retractor for McDonough for the last three hours." He sighs.

"I wish you could have too, _but_ you'll get another chance."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah." She links her arm through his as they walk down the hallway. "Lots of chances. After this it's all solo procedures, from now on."

"Really." He smiles at her. "So that's how it works?"

"Yup." She raises one of her hands to affirm her point. "First I fly solo and then you fly solo and we just get better and better until I get Chief Resident."

"You're getting Chief Resident?"

She nods. "Too much admin for you. You won't end up wanting it."

Interesting. "Go on," he says.

"Then our fellowships – the best ones, obviously, but they have to be at the same hospital, and I've already researched our options-"

Of course she has.

"-and then we'll set up our practices but we'll stay on faculty because teaching hospitals get all the coolest surgeries."

This is true.

"And then we'll each be the head of our own departments and then … "

"And then?"

"And then we'll be co-chiefs of surgery." She grins at him, pushing open the door to the locker room. "Which is when we get to run the whole hospital – or the important part of it, anyway."

"You have it all planned out, huh?"

She nods, opening her locker and fishing inside it for her street clothes. He just stands there for a moment, watching her.

"Addison…"

"Hm?" She turns to him, her scrub top halfway off.

"Marry me."

"What did you say?" She pulls her scrub top all the way off, getting slightly tangled in it and emerges a little breathless with flyaway hair.

"I said, marry me."

"Yeah, right…" She laughs a little reaches for the tie on her scrub pants.

"Addie." He covers her hands with his, stilling her fingers. "I mean it. Marry me."

"Derek." Her voice sounds a little shaky, her eyes lowered. "This isn't funny."

"I'm not trying to be funny. I'm trying to be married."

"But…"

"I know, I don't have a ring, I'm sorry. I'll get one. I'll get a big one." He considers the state of his bank account. "Or, you know, a small one and then I'll get you a big one when we take over the hospital because we _are_ going to do that one day."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He lowers onto one knee on the floor. "Addison..."

"Derek!" She's laughing but she also sounds a little teary. She rests one of her hands on the top of his head, tangling gently in his hair.

"I feel like I'm knighting you," she giggles.

"Addie … I'm trying to be romantic here."

"Derek, we're in the locker room and I'm half-dressed and I've been running around all day and I smell."

"You never smell."

She smiles a little bit.

"But Derek, we've talked about this. We were going to wait until we were done with our internships, and then…"

"…and then wait until we're done with our residencies, and then wait until we're done with our fellowships? Wait, and wait, and wait? I know what we said, Addie, but I don't want to wait anymore. Not for you."

The smile spreads across her face.

"But I need a ring." He looks around the room for inspiration. "Hang on a second."

"Derek…"

He sits back on his heels for a moment, thinking, then sees the pile of papers sitting on the bench. Reminders to the interns about the new filing rules. But the pile is secured with …

"Aha! Perfect."

Carefully, he straightens out the paper clip he detached from the papers and then bends it slowly into a circle.

A big circle.

Addison is laughing a little, watching him. "That thing is huge."

"I know," he deadpans, "but let's focus on the ring right now."

She groans. "That was Mark-worthy."

"Sorry. You know he's a bad influence. Hold on," he realizes what to do, and gets back onto his feet. "Don't move," he points at her.

"Don't point at me," she protests, but she's smiling.

He fishes in the supply tub on the table for a moment and then holds his hand up victoriously.

"Surgical tape," she observes doubtfully.

"And scissors," he adds.

"What are you going to…"

"My father owned a jewelry store, remember?" Derek carefully unrolls a short strip of surgical tape and begins cutting thin strands. "I have skills you haven't even seen."

He sits down on the bench in front of the lockers, concentrating. It's like surgery: careful, precise, and – yes! He's got the paper clip carefully doubled now. He tests the size on his own finger; he can gauge hers from his, from all the times their hands have pressed against each others and he's marveled at the skill and strength in her fingers. The ring fits him fine, so it will need to be a little smaller for her – except that it's likely to break if he plays with it any more than he already has.

(And yes, he realizes that last part was also Mark-worthy.)

"Derek … can I move yet?"

"No," he says without looking up.

"Can I at least put on my shirt?"

Now he looks up, admiring the view. "Definitely not."

"Someone could walk in any time, you know."

"But they haven't yet, right? Because the fates are aligning for my proposal."

"The fates. That's what's making you put – surgical tape on a paper clip?"

"Don't question the fates," he scolds. "Just give me one more second and … there we go."

He folds back onto one knee and holds up the newly constructed ring. "Addison … _now_ will you marry me?"

Her hands are propped on her hips. She looks away for a moment, then back at him, her eyes very blue in this light.

"Derek … are you asking me to marry you because you missed my solo surgery?"

"No." He shakes his head. "I'm asking you to marry me because I don't want to miss anything ever again."

"Then yes," she says, a smile spreading across her face, and he slides the ring onto the fourth finger of her left hand. "I'll marry you."

The ring fits perfectly.

..

"Derek? Were you going to…ask me something?" Her voice trails off. She's rubbing the back of her neck absently with one hand like she often does after surgery, stiff from the hours of tense focus.

He shakes his head. "It's nothing."

"Okay," she says uncertainly.

He could leave the scrub room, but something compels him to stay, hip propped against the sink, watching as she unpins her rings from her scrub top.

She looks up and sees him watching her.

"You know … superstition." She sounds a little embarrassed.

His hand moves seemingly of its own accord; suddenly, he's holding out an open palm.

She looks at his hand for a long moment, then carefully places her rings into it.

He remembers his three married sisters flocking around him, showing him how to place the wedding ring on Addison's finger. _The engagement ring goes first,_ Nancy – always the bossy one – instructed firmly. _That way you're protecting the stone,_ explained Kathleen, the logical one. _And one day you might even be able to afford a stone that needs protection,_ added Liz, the blunt one.

Taking her left hand in his, he prepares to slide the engagement ring – the protection-worthy stone he was eventually able to afford, as Lizzie might say, but not until later – onto her fourth finger.

"Wait," she says.

He pauses and looks up.

"Do the other one first."

"This one?" He holds up her simple white gold wedding band; that one hasn't changed over the years.

She nods.

Carefully, he slides the wedding band onto her finger first, followed by the engagement ring, and then releases her hand.

Addison's smile is almost shy. "Thanks," she says softly.

"Addison…"

"Hm?" She's twisting the rings absently around her finger.

"Why are you wearing them like that?"

"Like what?"

"Wedding band there," he takes her left hand in his again and touches her skin lightly where the band sits, "and engagement ring there. I thought the engagement ring went below the band to protect the diamond."

"Who told you that, Nancy?"

"Maybe," he admits. "But why are you…"

"I always wear them like this." She holds her left hand out in front of her for a moment, studying it.

"No, you don't." He's confused. "Why did you want me to-"

"I don't know," she says abruptly.

"You always know."

She pauses and then continues when he's still waiting for an answer, sounding a little impatient. "I don't _know_ , Derek, okay? I just … like having the band closer right now," she confesses finally.

"Closer to what?"

"Forget it. No reason."

"Addison." He touches her arm. "You're a surgeon. _And_ I know you. You never do anything without a reason. Closer to what?"

"To my heart," she says finally, blushing visibly. "And Derek, if you tell anyone I said that, the interns are going to stop being afraid of me and my life here is going to get even worse."

"Even worse," he repeats her words.

She shrugs a little, and when she reaches up to untie her scrub cap he sees her hands shake just a little bit with exhaustion.

"I'm sorry your life here is … worse," he says quietly.

"Yeah, well. I'm sorry for a lot of things too." She shakes out her lucky scrub cap. "I really am, Derek, but … anyway, thanks for what you did in there, with Lucy."

"Just doing my job."

She smiles briefly and then shrugs into the lab coat she's left hanging on the hook, reaching into the pocket. Derek watches as she pulls out a jumble of keys – he used to tease her that she walked around like a custodian: there was no reason to carry her house keys, the keys to their summer house, the keys to the car she almost never drove, the keys to her office, the keys to _his_ office, the keys to Savvy & Weiss's, the keys to Nancy's … and so on.

As she fiddles with her stack of keys he notices that she's using the same sterling half-circle to hold her keys she's always used, but he also notices that in between the copious different keys there's something dangling that is not a key.

It's a slightly misshapen little circle, small and easy to miss.

But he can see yellowing surgical tape wrapped around the rather lumpy shape that he knows to be … a paper clip. A paper clip bent double, covered in thin strips of tape, twelve years ago.

"Addison…"

She looks up at him, and he sees her fingers stroking the little circle dangling from her keychain.

"You hungry?"

"A little, I guess."

"We could-"

"The crusts are too thick," she responds before he can finish.

He presses his lips together. He could say _I wasn't going to suggest pizza,_ but she can usually tell when he's lying.

"You pick, then," he challenges.

She doesn't say anything.

"… right, where's the fun in that," he teases her, "if you can't criticize the choice?"

She looks the slightest bit amused. "So … what do we do, then?"

"How about we get pizza, but you can criticize the crusts the whole time?"

"Okay." She nods slowly, a smile spreading across her face. "Okay. Let me just change and … I'll meet you in the lobby in twenty minutes?"

He watches her walk away, taking his rings with her.

All three of them.

* * *

 _Finis. Okay, I don't know what's gotten into me. Fluffy Fridays? (Ooh, anyone sense a new series idea?)_

So, the nice thing about this chapter, IMO, is the choose your own ending aspect. These flips are, as many of you have noted, just steps toward each other. This one was a touch fluffy, but... you have options!

For angst lovers – Ianuaria, Msmiumiu, for example, imagine one of them gets a page after this, they don't get their pizza, and the step they took toward each other just kind of … fades out. ("That's why you always leave a note!")

If you want more steps, maybe a little sweetness: for you, xxLittleBlackDressesxx, maybe they totally shared that pizza. Derek obviously ate her overly thick crusts while she complained about missing New York slices.

Last thing ... I love reviews, I'm shameless, there, I said it. Picture me as Addison following you down you the hall of , asking: "Was the story okay? Are we okay?" Don't be the guy who says "yeah, we're fine, I'll see you in the next chapter." Or worse, "Not now, winter machine." And with that, I'm out 'til the next chapter. Thanks for being awesome readers and keeping the Addek Revolution alive!


	10. A Moment or Two Without You

**A/N: First off,** thank you kindly and tons for the reviews. **Second** \- I know I'm posting a _lot._ I'm taking advantage of some unusually free time and when the bug bites, it bites. **Finally** , this flip is a little different - okay, fine, my project/my rules, and I'm not great at following the rules. I think you can read this flip either as platonic - Derek and Addison making a step back to each other as friends - or as the beginning of something more, because they need to take that first step either way. It's a flip of _Sometimes a Fantasy,_ one of the gut-wrenching early-Season-3 episodes where Derek is bright and shiny and Addison is miserable. I've always had a really hard time with those episodes, because their marriage never got any closure. As we know, Meredith walked in on Addison crying in a supply closet during that episode, and Addison got to deliver the simple line _thanks_ in a way that reminds me that Kate Walsh is a comic goddess. Mer, for all her flaws (aren't they all flawed?) is a kind person, so I think it's not such a stretch to think she might have told Derek what she saw. Not a stretch, just a flip...

* * *

 **A Moment or Two Without You  
** _(3.03, "Sometimes a Fantasy")_ **  
**

 _Look, why don't you just pick a floor and stay on it, and I'll pick a floor and stay on that, because I really need a moment or two without you. Your face shows up in my head; your panties show up in my husband's pocket. Really, you're everywhere, and I need a moment or two without you._ (Addison, 3.03)

* * *

"Your wife," Meredith says, closing a chart and handing it to him, "was crying in a supply closet today."

"My wife …" Derek shakes his head. "I don't have a wife."

"Is your divorce finalized?"

"Not yet."

"Then you have a wife."

"Fine. I have a wife, technically speaking – _very_ technically speaking."

"And I found your very-technically-speaking-wife crying in a supply closet."

He glances at her. "Addison doesn't cry in supply closets."

"Fine, Derek, then Addison has a twin sister, who looks exactly like her, down to the very impractical shoes, and I found _her_ crying in a supply closet today."

He doesn't respond.

Meredith raises her eyebrows. "Don't you want to know why Addison's twin sister was crying in a supply closet?"

"It's not because of me," he says defensively. "Maybe she lost a patient or something, I don't know."

"She specifically mentioned my panties and _your_ pocket."

"Right." He glances down at his hands. "Okay, well. I apologized for that already. It's fine."

" _Well,_ " she repeats his word, "it didn't seem fine. _She_ didn't seem fine."

"She's fine, Meredith."

"She didn't _seem_ fine," she repeats.

"But she is."

"Derek, you left her. I know from personal experience, because you left me too, that getting left by you does not make a person _fine._ "

"She's not crying over me, Meredith. She went right back to screwing my former best friend," he pronounces the name with disgust.

"Mark's here?"

"Mark's here. With Addison. Who is my wife in name only until we can meet with the lawyers, which will be very, _very_ soon."

"Okay."

"So. Like I said, Addison is fine. Don't worry about her."

"Derek…"

"I think it's sweet that you're worried. But don't. Worry about me instead," and he draws her into his arms.

"We're dating," she reminds him.

"Mm-hm, and dating includes kissing. At least the good kind does," and she doesn't object when he tugs her lightly around the corner for privacy and then drops a quick kiss on her lips, followed by a longer one.

..

He's shaking his head a little as he walks down the east wing of the second floor the next day, thinking about his conversation with Meredith. She means well, of course, but she doesn't know Addison. Addison doesn't cry in supply closets.

Addison doesn't cry at all – with a few exceptions, maybe sometimes, but she certainly doesn't cry in supply closets.

Okay, once, when they were interns, but that doesn't count. That was _intern_ Addison. And at that time, she was his girlfriend, and she hadn't cheated on him with anyone, much less his best friend, so yeah, that was different. He'd comforted her, promised her she hadn't really killed that baby, offered to punch Dr. Webber in the nose, and then when she stopped crying they'd spread out a couple of clean towels and…

Right. _Very_ different.

So why is he pausing outside the closed door of a supply closet now, ear pressed to the door, just because he overheard a sound – a sound that could be anything, from anyone?

He raps on the door with his knuckles.

Nothing.

Maybe he imagined it. He checks his blackberry, buying a little time.

But then he hears it again, a faint noise.

"Hello?" He raps on the door again, and no one answers, but he's pretty sure he can hear rustling from inside the supply closet.

"Who's in there?"

No response.

"I'm coming in." And he justifies it because it could be anyone in there: a scared intern, a runaway from the psych ward, a patient's kid playing around where they shouldn't.

"… _don't_."

Just one word in a congested, tear-filled little voice, and it's unmistakably hers.

Damn.

"Addison…" he cracks the door very slightly. He can't see her, it's barely even open at all, but he can tell she's in there.

"Go away, Derek," she mumbles.

"Are you all right?" He can't help sounding grudging. He's human, after all.

She doesn't answer.

"Addison."

He pushes the door open further until she comes into view.

His very-technically-speaking-wife, his almost-soon-to-be ex-wife, is sitting on a box of foley caths with her legs crossed – of course her legs are crossed, with one high-heeled foot dangling - her lab coat dragging on the ground, sporting dark trails of mascara down both cheeks.

She looks up at him with swollen eyes, and doesn't bother with a question mark: "What," she mutters, sounding annoyed.

"…are you all right?"

"I'm great. I'm perfect. Can't you tell?" She gestures to the supply closet around her, and vaguely to her own person. "You want to gloat? Go ahead. Gloat, and then go away."

"I don't want to gloat."

"Then what do you want, Derek?"

He spots a full box of electrode straps about the same height as hers and drags it over next to her, sitting down on it.

"I want to check on you," he says simply.

" _Check on me_ ," she echoes, somewhere between disbelief and disgust.

"See if you're all right," he amends.

"I'm not all right!" She raises her voice, then covers her mouth with her hand. "Sorry."

"You want me to … get someone?" He winces slightly. "Mark, or…"

"I don't want to talk about him," she says immediately.

"Fine," he responds, more sharply than he intended. He knows he should control his tone; he was the one who came in here, after all.

"He's leaving, anyway," she mumbles.

"Oh. Okay, well…"

"Mark's leaving, but I'm still here, and I have to see you … the two of you … all happy. All happy, and shiny, and getting your happiness all over the hallway." She turns teary, red ringed eyes to him. "You're _happy_ ," she bleats.

"I'm happy," he admits, then regrets it when fresh tears fill her eyes. "Addison, I'm sorry that it's … hard for you. I am."

"Yeah, I can tell." She scrubs at her eyes, leaving more dark streaks on her cheeks, some of it trailing onto the sleeves of her blouse. "That's why you're so upset."

"Addison," he starts quietly.

"Why, Derek?"

"Why what?"

"Why isn't it hard for you? Why are you so – cheerful, so _thrilled_ to be rid of me? We were married for eleven years. Eleven years! We were together a third of our lives. But you're happier than I've seen you in…" her voice trails off. "Oh. Right." Her voice is very small. "It's because I made you unhappy. _I_ was the reason you weren't happy. Now you're free of Satan and you can be happy. Right?"

"No. That's not right."

"it is."

"We made each other unhappy," he corrects gently, stressing _each other_. "We tried to fix it, but it couldn't be fixed. It's better this way."

"You didn't try. You never tried."

"I tried, Addie." His tone comes out as exhausted as he feels.

"You _said_ you tried," and her tone is scathing. "You pretended to try, hell, maybe you even _wanted_ to try, but you never actually tried. It was just me, holding down our marriage, just like the last few years in New York before you left."

"I _left_ because you slept with my best friend, Addison!"

"Because you weren't there!" Her voice is loud, and she rubs her forehead as if the words are making her ache. "You lived there but you weren't actually there and I was desperate, okay, for something, to feel _something_ , and Mark was there, and…" Her voice trails off, and she sobs once, then stops and furiously scrubs tears out of her eyes.

"You were unhappy," he says softly, "in New York, before Mark. You were unhappy, and so was I, and it's okay to admit that, and to move on."

"You sound like a freaking shrink."

"Maybe that's not so bad."

"Right. You're very … healthy about all of this. That's why you made sure to end our marriage in the most civil and _mature_ way possible. Sex in an exam room, while I was a hundred feet away at Richard's stupid prom … that you invited me to," she adds.

"I'm not proud of what happened during the prom, Addison. I think I already told you that."

"Well, you seemed pretty proud of yourself when you left my hotel room."

"You were…" he stops talking. _You were screwing Mark again,_ but he doesn't want to fight with her. It's not the right time.

"You're right," he says instead. "But it's true, I'm not proud of it. I shouldn't have done it, not that … way. It wasn't fair to you, and it wasn't fair to Meredith."

She rolls her eyes at Meredith's name and he regrets bringing her up.

And then, without warning, she's crying again, and it's not a short burst like the other time, it seems to go on and on, shaking her body. She's propped her elbows on her knees and buried her head in her hands so he can't see her face, but he can hear her sobs and her hitching breaths.

He should do something, but as in so many moments in the last couple of years of their marriage, he's struck with the idea that he can't really help her. There's nothing he can do for her, not without turning back time … to a hell of a lot earlier than the prom. Whatever she needs to feel better, he doesn't have it.

He rests a hand on her shoulder anyway. At first, he's almost positive she'll shrug it off and push him away but she doesn't, and then he's stuck. He keeps his distance, sitting on his own box, but he leaves his hand on her, rubbing one shoulder and then her back, the back of her neck, with no real pattern, not really going on anything except instinct, the fact that he hasn't seen her cry this much since the night he left her in New York, and the fact that his ill-advised decision to try to find her has actually upset her more than she already was. Her skin feels warm through the fabric of her blouse – Addison was always cold, always complaining about the heat in their brownstone, adding an extra blanket to the bed, so he's forced to conclude that she's been sitting in here crying for who knows how long, just … generating heat.

Long moments pass like this, Addison crying – not silently, but not especially noisily either, with no words at all, while he moves his hand along the tense muscles of her back, fairly certain he's not offering any real comfort but not feeling ready to stop, either.

Finally, she sits up, and his hand falls away.

She looks terrible.

Which isn't something he, or anyone else, can say about Addison very often. But in this moment her face is swollen and blotchy, there are damp strands of hair stuck to her mascara-streaked cheeks, her makeup is a mess. Part of him hopes she has a mirror with her so she doesn't return to work looking like this and the other part hopes she doesn't actually have to see herself looking like this at all. One thing you can say for Addison – when she falls apart, she falls apart.

He spots a box of tissues on a shelf within arms' reach and snags it, tearing the cardboard open and holding it out to her. She takes one and blots at her face, her breath still hitching.

Strands of her hair are sticking to the sides of her wet cheeks; he reaches out one more time to move them off her face but she flinches slightly when he touches her.

"Sorry," he says immediately, withdrawing his hand.

She doesn't respond.

"Addison … it's okay."

"Clearly." She shoves her hair out of her face herself, breathing hard as if the sarcasm tired her out, obviously trying to get control of herself.

"Addie."

"Don't," she says quietly. "Please don't. It's not fair."

"Okay," he says, nodding slowly; he has no idea what she means but it seems appropriate to try to appease her.

"Okay," she repeats. "Okay, Derek. You came in here, you get to be dreamy and go back out there and feel good about yourself. You got what you wanted, you can go now."

"This isn't what I wanted."

"What do you want, then?"

"I want you to be okay."

"Well, I'm not! And I'm sorry if it's inconvenient for you that I'm not, or that I can't get my rings off – _don't_ touch me," she says as his hand automatically reaches for her left one. "God, Derek. They're not stuck. _I'm_ what's stuck. And the last thing I need is you in here throwing it in my face!"

"I'm not trying to throw it in your face."

"But you are. You're … in the hospital, in the hallways, with her, and we're still _married,_ Derek, and I don't care how much of a hypocrite that makes me, I don't care! Because I came out here for you and I stayed here for you because I thought we could do this, that we could be what we used to be, and now I'm nothing but the biggest idiot in Seattle."

"Addison…"

"And I'm alone, and you're with her, and you're … happy. Is she living in the trailer?" she asks abruptly.

"No," he says quietly. "Are you living in that hotel room?"

She doesn't answer.

"Is that because you're … I mean, are you staying in Seattle?"

"Sorry to disappoint you, Derek, but for now … yeah, I'm staying in Seattle." She starts crying again, apparently just at the thought of living here.

"Addison … you don't have to stay in Seattle if you don't want to."

"Wow, thank you, Derek." She's sarcastic now, the tears gone, but maybe that's better. "That never occurred to me."

"Addison," he says patiently. "I don't think you're actually angry with me."

She snorts with disbelief.

"And even if you are, I don't think that – lashing out isn't going to make you feel better."

"You have no idea what's going to make me feel better."

"How about sleeping with Mark?" He says it before he can censor himself.

"Yeah, well." She sniffs, pressing the back of her hand to her eyes. "That did help, a little."

He shakes his head.

"But not for very long. Nothing helps for very long."

"Addison..."

"I know! I know I'm being ridiculous, I _know_ I cheated first, and I know I'm not a good person, Derek, believe me, I'm aware of that. If you knew some of the things…" her voice cracks and she stops talking. "Anyway, it doesn't matter because it's not logical, it's just stupid. I'm just stupid."

"You're not stupid."

"Outside of the OR, I'm stupid," she amends.

"Outside of the OR, we're all stupid," he counters.

She's quiet for a moment before she speaks again.

"Look, Derek … my personal credibility is shot to hell, here _and_ in Manhattan, I can't risk losing what's left of my professional credibility by walking out on a multi-million-dollar contract six months after I signed it. Not when what's left of my professional credibility is pretty much all I have."

"So," he leans back a little. "You're staying in Seattle."

"So I'm staying in Seattle. At least for now."

"Okay." He nods.

"And you're staying with her," Addison prompts.

"I'm dating her."

"You're dating her?"

"I'm dating her," he confirms. "And so is Finn."

"Finn?" Her face scrunches with confusion for a moment as she tries to place him. "Finn, as in Dr. Dandridge? Finn the vet?"

"Finn the vet, yes."

"Ah." She nods. "Does he know what Meredith did on prom night?"

"I don't know, Addison. It's not my place to tell him." _Or yours,_ but he doesn't say it out loud because he knows her well enough to know she wouldn't do that. Addison barely likes breaking bad news to herself, let alone anyone else.

She's looking at him, her eyes very pale and mostly green like they always get when she's been crying. "So you're just going to be … dating her."

"Yes."

"Seeing her."

"Right."

"Here, in the hospital."

"Yes."

"And talking to her. And … _dating_ her."

"Yes. I'm going to be seeing her, and talking to her, and dating her. Not to hurt you, not because I want to upset you, because I don't. But … yes, I'm going to be doing those things."

Addison draws a long shuddering breath. "Okay," she says finally, sounding like she's trying to convince herself. "Okay. Then … can you at least stay out of my supply closet?"

He finds himself smiling a little bit. "I can do that, yes."

It feels like the finality he's been seeking, so he starts to stand up, then pauses, feeling he has to make something clear. "You didn't … make me unhappy, Addison. We just weren't right for each other. We haven't been right for each other for a long time. A long time before Mark _or_ Meredith."

"But I wanted to keep trying," she whispers.

"I know you did." He sits back down heavily. "I know, and I'm sorry."

"No, you're not."

He sidesteps. "There's just no way we could have made it work, Addie, not with everything that's happened…"

"Yeah." She looks past him – she's thinking of something, he's not sure what. A memory, maybe. "I guess that's true."

"Okay," he says uncertainly. "Do you want…." He's not sure how that sentence should end.

"No, Derek, it's fine. Just go."

"Addison…"

"Just … stay out of my supply closet," she repeats, her voice a little thick. "This one's mine, okay? Second floor, east wing, cardiac recovery unit. You can have all the others, and I really, _really_ don't want to know what you're going to do in there … but this one's mine."

"Okay," he nods. "This one's yours."

"Derek…"

"Yeah."

"Are you going to tell her?" Addison's voice is shaking, it's clear who she means by _her_.

"Not if you don't want me to."

She makes a gesture of giving up. "I don't care, actually. It's not like I can humiliate myself any more than I already have."

"Addison." For the second time he sits down again. "You shouldn't feel humiliated."

"Well, I do."

"Meredith isn't judging you. She doesn't judge anyone," and he can't help a note of affection, admiration, from slipping into his voice. He senses the moment she hears it, though, and wishes he hadn't said anything at all.

"Addison…"

"No, it's fine. I get it, it's fine. You say her name, you're happy. It happens. When you love someone." Her voice catches a little on the word _love_.

"Addison..."

"So it's fine, but it would be great if you could just … can you at least just stop saying my name like you hate me?"

He's surprised. "I don't hate you, Addison."

"Then your voice hates me."

He smiles a little in spite of himself. "I'll have a talk with my voice, then. Keep it in line."

"Thanks."

"Well." He looks down, then braces his hands on his thighs to stand again.

"You sure you don't want to …" he gestures toward the door, going so far as to offer her his hand.

She shakes her head. "No, you go. I'm okay."

"You're okay," he agrees, studying her bowed head. "That's all I came here to say."

She doesn't look at him as he starts to walk out, then he turns around and crouches down in front of her, figuring she's more likely to make eye contact, resting one hand on the box she's using as a seat.

"Now what?" She sounds suspicious.

"I … resented you," he admits. "For Mark, for coming out here yourself, for making me end things with Meredith. I resented you and I tried to push it down, but I couldn't. I tried to be someone I wasn't and I couldn't do it and it just made me resent you more and it wasn't fair to either of us. I wasn't the person I wanted to be."

She doesn't say anything.

"But now we don't have to do that anymore," he says. "We can just … be. And I do want you to be all right, Addison."

"Thanks," she says, sarcasm obvious.

"I just mean I don't need to resent you anymore. I can … care."

"Great. I'm honored. You know what, Derek, maybe I resent _you_ now."

"Maybe. I wouldn't blame you if you did. But you won't resent me forever."

"I might."

"You might … but you won't."

She smiles weakly, signaling the conversation is over, and he stands back up again.

"Addison…"

She glances at him and he finds he has no idea what to say. She can still wrong-foot him after all these years, but he feels compelled to offer one last thing to the soggy mess on the overturned box, the one he knows will snap back into perfectly groomed professional in no time at all, will push this awkward, teary conversation so far down maybe she won't remember it at all. Like it never happened.

"I'm sorry, Addison," he says finally, one last time.

He is sorry.

He's sorry she's a wreck, he's sorry she's crying in a supply closet for the second time in two days, and he's sorry that the happiest he's been in years has to coincide with hurting her this deeply.

He's not sorry about Meredith. And he knows she knows that. And he knows he doesn't have to bring it up.

"Yeah. Me too," she says. She's not crying when he closes the door, just resting her chin in her hand and gazing at something he can't see, almost … calmly.

..

"Shepherd!"

He swings around to see Dr. Bailey rounding the corner on the south wing of the second floor. She frowns at him. "Have you seen Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd?"

"I think she was checking on a patient on the fifth floor," he says smoothly. "There were some … complications; she may be a while."

"Fifth floor?"

"Fifth floor," Derek confirms.

He sees Bailey looking at him curiously.

"What?"

"Nothing, Shepherd." She shakes her head. "Nothing at all."

* * *

 _It's a little step. Right? I mean, the thing with his not knowing about the living with Mark and the baby (her "if you knew the things...") is hard. It's a big Addek obstacle. But this is still a step toward something, right? I actually flirted with extending it and turning it into a Season 3 reconciliation story, but I have enough outstanding stories and I really do need to go get some Vitamin D. ;-)_

 _Thank you for reading! I hope you'll let me know what you think, and continue to give me suggestions for flips._


	11. With Peaceful Wings Unfurled

**A/N:** With appreciation for everyone who read the saddest flip yet last chapter (but one that felt very right to me; early season 3 Derek was incredibly blind and often cruel, and it would take a long time for that to change), here's one that will be a little easier on the palate. I struggled at first with writing a Christmas flip, because I've been writing the longest Christmas story ever for six years now I figured I was all Christmas'd out. But then this came to me, and ... you know the rest of the story.

I know I don't have to intro the Christmas episode to a bunch of Addek folk, but tradition is tradition: Derek has been moody and dismissive all day/season, and finally comes to Joe's where Addison is waiting, looking breathtaking (this is source of the "Hey, Dr. Shepherd" / "Dr. Shepherd" toast that spawned a thousand fic references), and then Derek sits down with her, she asks him why he's so bummed, and he unloads the _I fell in love with her ... that doesn't go away just because I decided to stay with you_ speech. And then we fade to black on the two of them looking uncomfortable. I wonder what they did next? Would have been nice if it had been this...

* * *

 **With Peaceful Wings Unfurled**  
 _(2.12, "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer")_

 _Still through the cloven skies they come  
With peaceful wings unfurled  
And still their heavenly music floats  
Over all the weary world_

Long moments of silence pass as she stirs her drink and Derek stares at his. They're sitting slightly angled away from each other but he's all her peripheral vision can make out, hunched shoulders in his familiar jacket, hair tumbling forward over his forehead.

 _I'm not saying this to hurt you – or because I want to leave you, because I don't…_

"Did you mean it?" She hasn't spoken in a while and her voice sounds hoarse, unused. Scratchy. The hot buttered rum has started to smell nauseating, she reaches for a sip of his scotch to clear her throat instead.

"Did I mean what?"

He takes the scotch from her hand before she can set it back on the table and swallows his own sip.

She takes a deep breath. "That you don't want to leave me."

Slowly, he nods.

"Really…"

"Addison," he sighs.

"Sorry." She stares into her frothy seasonal drink for a minute. She felt happy, ordering it, light and almost festive, and then…

"So you did," she says again tentatively, "you did mean it," knowing he dislikes it when she pushes him, but feeling the need to do it anyway. She braces for him to snap at her, annoyed, but he just leans back a little in his chair to see her.

"I did," he says after a moment.

"Okay, then." She pushes back her chair to stand. "Let's go."

He frowns slightly. "Go where?"

"You'll see."

"You haven't finished your drink," he points out.

"That's fine. I'm driving, anyway."

"You are?"

He catches up to her outside the bar, looking confused.

"I am." She nods and holds out an open palm. "Give me your keys."

He hands them over without question; Derek doesn't like riding in other people's cars if he can help it, she wasn't going to invite him into zippy little leased roadster. Plus, his jeep handles the constant dampness on the roads better, even if she would never admit it to him.

"Addison … where are we going?"

She looks at him without answering. _Trust me,_ she says without speaking, and it's a huge long shot – the kind of leap she hasn't taken in her marriage in a while, she's been afraid to take, but he nods slowly, and gets into the car.

..

"I had a nanny," she says quietly, before she starts the car. The keys are in the ignition but they're still sitting in the parking lot; with both of them facing ahead into the darkness it's somehow easy to talk. "Lynne. She was studying to be a nurse and this one Christmas both my parents were out of the country and my brother was away skiing with some friends. He invited me, but I broke my wrist playing tennis and … anyway, that's how I ended up stuck at home. And too old for a nanny. I was fourteen, but having Lynne around meant my parents never had to be home at all, so … they called her a _companion_ , which was even worse, like they'd hired someone to be my friend…"

Her voice trails off; she can't help feeling like she's said too much. It's not that Derek doesn't know about her family – he knows more than anyone else about her family. So she keeps going.

"She was, um, she stayed with us over the holiday. And she was nice. She told the staff not to trim the tree so we could do it ourselves, and when cook made us hot chocolate Lynne actually put a candy cane in each of our mugs, as a stirrer, and it melted the most delicious peppermint into the cup. I had never seen that before."

"So that's where you learned to do that," he muses.

She glances at him. It's one of their nieces and nephews' favorite traditions, now. "Yeah, from Lynne. Anyway, I guess I was … sad, that Christmas Eve. It didn't feel like Christmas. I missed my brother. There were decorations and things, but they just sort of felt ... hollow. You know, there were presents under the tree but they were just decorative."

She pauses. She knows the fact that the staff wrapped empty boxes in gorgeous wrapping and trimmed them with festive ribbons, every year, is one of the sadder commentaries on the Montgomery home. But Derek knows this already. He knew her past when he married her, and he married her anyway.

"My parents sent money, of course, and Lynne had picked out some things for me but Bizzy didn't like anything under the tree that didn't have the coordinated wrapping, you know, for her parties."

Derek nods; of course he knows this. But he hasn't heard the rest of the story.

"So I was just – sad, I don't know, moody. I was fourteen." She smiles ruefully. "And Lynne just said, let's get in the car. It was already almost ten o'clock at night, and I thought we'd … go to bed. She had this little car with the seats that …" She gestures. "And she wouldn't tell me where we were going; she sad it was a surprise. But on our way out she stopped in the kitchens and packed up these armloads of fresh doughnuts cook would make … and she brought me to the hospital."

"The hospital?"

"Yeah. To the children's ward, or that's where I thought we were going, but she took me to another place, where I guess she had been training … and I saw the tiniest babies I'd ever seen. They didn't even look real."

"She took you to the NICU."

Addison nods. "I saw premature babies for the first time, I saw what they went through, what their families went through. Lynne had been doing some student nursing on the ward; she told me the parents had been sitting up with their babies, hadn't even left, and some of them had other children, you know, relatives and things, in the neonatal waiting room. And it was Christmas. And I was nervous, you know, about talking to them. They were strangers and I was shy, but also … their babies were so tiny. They looked so fragile – even frightening – and I couldn't imagine anything we could do could ever make their parents feel better. So I said something like that to Lynne."

She takes a deep breath.

"And Lynne said to me, 'Don't ever let anyone tell you there's nothing that can be done. There's always a way to help. And someone will always need you to help them. There's no one so far gone that your help won't make a difference.'"

Addison pauses.

"I'd been to my father's classes a few times, even seen him in the gallery once or twice, but it all felt … detached, you know? This was different. One of the babies' mothers, she told me that her baby was born prematurely and no one wanted to operate on her except one of the doctors and he saved her life … _he made a miracle,_ that's what the mother said, _that doctor made a miracle._ " She smiles now, remembering. "That baby … she would be twenty-five today. No," Addison amends, "she _is_ twenty-five today."

That baby was a miracle, and miracles make it.

Miracles always make it.

"It was the most incredible thing I'd ever seen," she says quietly.

Derek is looking at her; she sees the parking lot lamplight reflected in his eyes.

"So that's when you decided…"

"That's when I decided. I knew I wanted to be a doctor," Addison confirms, "even though until then I was hoping for a career that would annoy my parents."

"And you figured you could annoy your parents in other ways," he teases her gently; he's clearly trying to lighten the moment but she appreciates it, "like bringing home a boy from the wrong side of the tracks."

"That wasn't to annoy them." She smiles. "That was because …"

Her voice trails off. _Because I couldn't live without you._ But she can't say that, not now. _Because you cared about the hopeless cases too. You wanted to help people everyone else gave up on. First in school, and then in the OR. Because you cared._

Derek is looking at her. "I know," he says quietly. "So … is that what we're doing now, Addison? You want to go back to the hospital and…?"

"No." She shakes her head. "Seattle Grace is all set. I already arranged for their Christmas in the NICU." She's been doing that for years, except this Christmas it was in two cities at once. " _We_ are going to County. Well," she amends, "we're going to pick up some things first, and then we're going to County."

"Will anything be open?"

"Something is always open." She turns the key in the ignition. "You just have to have a little faith."

..

County Hospital is a lot less recently renovated than Seattle Grace; it doesn't have the same shine to the floors or modernity to the equipment. They flash credentials to get in but then tuck them away; they're not here to practice medicine. They're not the Doctors Shepherd right now; they're AddisonAndDerek.

The thought pops into her head as she's doling out slices of steaming, fragrant pizza to grateful relatives of patients and Derek is passing out colorful napkins and plates, joking with the gathering crowd: It's the first time she's felt like _AddisonAndDerek_ in a long time.

They mix up batches of hot chocolate, Addison decorating the top of each with a candy cane.

"Here," she turns and Derek is holding out a styrofoam cup to her. "You didn't get any," he says.

"Oh." She can't help smiling a little, but her hands are busy with the pizza, so he holds the cup to her lips and she takes a sip of the warm, sweet liquid. There's a hint of mint behind the chocolate.

"Thanks." She draws back, turns to pile another slice onto a plate.

"Wait." His fingers are under her jaw now, and she lets him guide her face, feeling frozen in place. "You missed a spot," he says quietly, and brushes his thumb along the corner of her mouth.

"Derek…"

"Who still needs pizza?" He's smiling at the crowd. "Step right up, step right up!"

They sing carols with the little visiting siblings, bring pizza, hot chocolate, and candy canes to the nurses and staff on duty. It's the most festive she's felt all Christmas season.

And when she glances over in the neonatal waiting room and sees Derek surrounded by a ring of laughing little children as he pretends to pull quarters from his ears, wearing a large pair of brown felt antlers someone dug up, she thinks it's also the best she's felt since she flew to Seattle.

..

When they're walking back to the car, she turns to him impulsively.

"Thank you," she says quietly, "for doing this."

He glances at her. "Thank you for bringing me."

They're standing on the same side of the jeep now, leaning against it. The weather is cold but mild, and she shivers a little.

"You want to –" he gestures toward the car.

"Not yet." It's an unusually clear night; she can see stars above unimpeded by the mist. "It feels a little more like Christmas now," she admits.

She sees Derek looking up at the stars too. "I don't know," he says. "I haven't almost broken my neck yet…."

She laughs. "Remember that year the kids didn't hear you, and you had to go up on the roof a _second_ time to make your sleigh noises?"

"And by that time it was snowing so I was certain I was going to slide off the roof."

They're both smiling now. "I was afraid you were going to fall!" She can feel the memory clear as the night it happened, a dark, star-pierced night that smelled of freshly-fallen snow and pine needles.

"I know, I was out there trying to keep from breaking my neck and you were down in the snow doing the thing – " he gestures with his hands in directional fashion as if guiding a plane down the runway. Then he pauses. "Well, you and Mark," he amends.

She feels her mouth twitch. She's afraid to lose the moment, lose this closeness. He's looking at her, his expression faraway.

"Derek," she starts gently.

"Did you love him?" His question is abrupt, but he sounds genuinely curious, not aggressive, and she lets herself answer without censorship.

"I thought I did," she confesses. The words aren't as terrifying as she thought they would be when they slip out. They just look like puffs of breath in the winter air. "He made me feel … better, when I was sad." She pauses, pushing her luck. "Is that what Meredith …."

He nods.

"Do you remember when Amy," he begins, and Addison is surprised; he rarely brings up his little sister. He pauses, then asks the question differently. "Do you remember? When you dragged me to that Family Day thing at her …"

 _Rehab._ The word is rehab, although back then the extended Shepherds had an unspoken agreement to call it _the place._ She does remember that. She remembers arguing with him before dawn in the greyish light of their bedroom while she threw things into a small overnight bag with more force than necessary and he stood with his back to her, refusing to acknowledge the journey. _I've had it,_ that's what he said, that morning. _I'm not going to indulge her anymore. Not after what she's done._ And Addison stood there with one of his shirts in her hands and said _fine, so indulge me, then._ He raised his voice, _just go without me,_ and _stop nagging already,_ and _give it up, Addison!_ She just shook her head, refused to let the tears in her eyes fall, and packed his things while he glared at her from across the bedroom. He did eventually pull it together and he came with her, although he sulked all the way to the Connecticut border; she was driving, and he made a point of indrawn breaths whenever she changed lanes. By the time they were halfway through Connecticut, he had stopped criticizing her driving for the most part. When Connecticut turned into Massachusetts he was looking out the window, resting a hand on her thigh and quiet. And when they pulled up to the quiet little group of pine buildings, set in a peaceful grove of trees, he stopped her before she could get out of the car, took her face between both hands and said _thank you for not giving up._ She thought then he meant on Amy … but maybe he meant on him, too.

"I remember," she says softly.

"Anyway," he says, and from the look in his eyes she has a feeling he's remember that morning as well. "The counselor person … whoever … had her sit in the middle of the circle and talk to us and asked Amy to tell us what she felt when she used. And she said … _it was better than being sad."_

Addison can hear the words like they're coming from Amy's small white face again, the way she hunched on the stool in a sweatshirt far too big for her, hands trembling. _How I felt, it was better. It was better than being sad._

Derek is looking at her now and she swallows hard. "You think they … Mark and Meredith … they're … our drugs?" She tries to sound like she's a little amused instead of halfway to a mostly unwelcome epiphany.

He doesn't say anything. Addison considers this. Mark, her oxy? She was in a dark place, when Derek left. _I was in a dark place,_ that's what Amy said. _And one day, a friend offered me…_

Oh.

… _and it was better than being sad._

And there it is.

Mark made her feel better. Every time he paid her attention, told her she was beautiful, stole a kiss in her office or pulled her close after a long day, she felt better. She _needed_ it, she needed not to feel sad. She craved his touch and told herself it was love, hoped it might be love, because if what she felt was love – and not desperation, fear, _sadness,_ then maybe she hadn't thrown away her life for nothing.

"They're not drugs," Derek amends, quietly. "They're people. But…"

Addison glances at him, then finishes the sentence for him. "…but we used them," she says faintly. "We used them to feel better, like Amy used drugs."

He looks uncomfortable at the thought; she's not surprised. Derek isn't used to feeling like the bad guy. His wife cheated on him, his best friend betrayed him. They're the bad ones. But Meredith – promising doctor, thoroughly decent person from what Addison has seen – Meredith didn't do anything wrong other than assume the man she was dating, who gave her no impression otherwise, was single.

"We had feelings for them," Derek says, sounding too tired to be really defensive.

His use of _we_ isn't lost on Addison. He's talking about them together.

"Right," she agrees slowly. And she believes it. Mark wasn't a stranger in a bar. He was a friend, a close friend, with whom she'd developed a platonic love over the years. There are a lot of _feelings._ Newness, excitement, the thrill of a person who hasn't yet seen you at your worst. Meredith was fresh, untouched, knew nothing of Derek's past. And Mark? Addison had spent a lot of time with him over the years. But they'd never yelled at each other across a half-packed suitcase, nursed each other through the stomach flu, done all the hundred and thousands of things that made up the minutiae of marriage. It was undignified, marriage. In a lot of small ways, and some big ones, it was undignified. Which requires trust.

…which is different from just trying not to be sad.

Derek wasn't a panacea. He didn't stop her from being sad. Hell, plenty of times over the last sixteen years, he _made_ her sad. And then they would make it better, together.

"Derek," she says softly. "You said … at Joe's, you said you don't want to leave me."

"I don't," he confirms.

"But do you want to stay with me?"

She holds her breath a little bit, willing him to understand the difference. And then she sees in his eyes that he does.

Of course he does.

Slowly, he nods. "I do," he says.

It's enough for her. For tonight, it's enough.

He tastes like candy canes when she kisses him, and like Christmas when he kisses her back.

* * *

 _Awww. Okay, is that better? Do you forgive me for the sad flip last time? As Addison would say, have I repaid my debt to society? (Derek's answer: I haven't forgiven winter machine, and I have no obligation to try!) Thanks for reading, reviewing, and prompting. I appreciate it so very much! (Also, those of you who made it to Private Practice may recognize Amy's speech about drugs, with the words slightly tweaked.)_

Title from _It Came Upon a Midnight Clear,_ of course. By Sears/Willis.


	12. About the Vows

**A/N:** It's been way too long since I flipped the last script - sorry! Here's one based on _Let it Be,_ the infamous Savvy and Weiss episode. You can always tell an Addek shipper because they talk about Savvy and Weiss like they were series regulars for five years. "On for five minutes total of one episode out of thirteen seasons? Feh! They are _crucial!"_ That's what we say. And they _are_ crucial, for Addek. Other than Richard and Adele - whose backstory is confusing anyway - they're the only people who knew Addek back when they were the happy couple we never got to see. It's no secret I love S&W so much I have a whole other series going on right now. But I also wanted to try a script flip from the episode. Derek and Weiss and Addison and Savvy were all in the room together when the episode ended, and Addison started to operate. Eventually the surgery ended, and that's where my flip begins...

* * *

 **About the Vows** _  
_ _(2.08, "Let it Be")_

 _.._

 _Yeah, well, what am I doing with Addison now? Hmm? I'm trying to work it out. I don't know – am I out of my – my mind? I don't know. You tell me. … It's about the ring. It's about the vows.  
_ -Derek (to Weiss), _Let it Be_

* * *

"I wasn't surprised that he showed up."

He admits this to Addison in the scrub room, after Savvy's surgery, while she's washing her hands.

"Really?" She looks at him with interest. "I was."

It makes sense.

He's the optimist. She's the pragmatist.

Briefly, he wonders if she expects him to let her down like that. The way she expected Weiss to. It was always the four of them: Addie-and-Derek, Savvy-and-Weiss. But Addison starts talking first.

"He was so opposed to the surgery," she says quietly.

"He didn't want to lose her."

"But this is the way not to –" she stops talking. "Derek … what would you want? If it were me, I mean."

He glances around uncomfortably, but they're alone in the scrub room now. There's no excuse not to answer. "I don't know," he attempts.

But she just blinks, waiting for him to say more.

"I would want you to … consider all the options and make an informed decision," he says finally.

"That's not a real answer."

"Well, it's not a real question either, Addie."

"Derek-"

"We have enough problems," he says firmly. "We don't need to borrow other people's."

"They're not _other people,_ they're some of our closest friends."

"I know who they are." He exhales, suddenly very tired. "Addison-"

She nods, taking her name as the request for silence it is. She doesn't speak again until she's pushing open the door, and then she turns to him, half in and half out.

"You watched, though."

"Hm?"

"You watched the surgery," she repeats. "You haven't seen me operate since … well, in a while."

 _Since before._

"So … what did you think?" She has a hand propped on her hip but the scrub top is loose on her narrow frame and the pose looks vulnerable rather than aggressive.

"It was perfect," he says honestly. "Your work is always perfect."

"Like yours." She pauses. "We're perfect in the OR."

He nods.

"Outside of it…" Her voice trails off.

"…maybe less so," he finishes for her.

She pauses, and he takes advantage of the moment to reach around her and push the door further open, urging them both through it and into the hallway.

...

They attend to other patients while Savvy is in recovery, then join the groggy patient and her husband once she's been wheeled back to her room.

"Sav? You did great." Addison is bending low over the bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Sore," she mumbles.

Weiss glances at Derek, looking pained, then at Addison.

"Addie," Weiss says huskily. "Look, I'm sorry if I … well, I'm grateful to you for …" his voice trails off again.

"It's okay." She rests a hand on his arm.

"We're grateful to both of you," Savvy's voice is scratchy but clear. "We're just so glad there _is_ a both of you."

Addison exchanges a glance with Derek; she looks nervous, like she's anticipating a response from him she won't like. He doesn't say anything, just pats Savvy's hand.

"Get some rest," he tells her, shakes hand with Weiss, whose eyes are red, and reminds him he'll need to rest too, so he can be there for Savvy as she recovers.

"Derek." Weiss grabs his hand before he can leave; Addison's sitting by Savvy's side now, out of earshot. "I shouldn't have – Addie was right. About Savvy. I don't want to lose her, Derek. I can't. I can't lose her."

"You're not going to."

"She could have died." Weiss's voice is thick, choking. "She could have _died,_ Derek, and I would have – I would never have –"

"Hey." Derek rests his free hand on Weiss's shoulder. "Savvy's okay, and so are you. This is just adrenaline, Weiss. It's a comedown. It's perfectly natural. Savvy's safe, and she's going to be fine."

"Don't waste time," Weiss says darkly. "Derek … there's no time."

Derek studies his friend's face for a moment. It's craggier than he remembers, more tired. Weiss looks like he's been through a war – and maybe he has.

"Get some rest," he repeats gently. "We'll see you in the morning."

Weiss looks like he wants to say more, but he doesn't.

"Addison?" Derek glances to Savvy's bedside, where Addison is speaking quietly to their friend, carefully holding her hand. She's too engrossed to look up; he moves to her side and touches her shoulder.

"Addison … let's let Savvy get some rest."

There are tears in her eyes when she looks up at him. He remembers she had the added pressure of operating on Savvy. Her skills are unparalleled and the procedure was simple, especially compared to the intricate surgeries at which she excels – but it's her dear friend nonetheless.

Richard signed off on it, so Derek couldn't exactly disagree, but the pressures of operating on a loved one are obvious.

He extends a hand now to encourage her to stand up; she does so, slowly, stiffly, as if she's been sitting for a long time. They say good night and he rests a hand on her back, sheer habit or maybe urging her not to turn around again, as they walk out of the room.

…

She wants to check on a patient before they leave, and then he's changing and then she's changing and finally they're both in the lobby. Under the harsh lights and with her face washed her exhaustion is obvious, shadows under her eyes and a stretched look around her temples that he recognizes as a symptom of stress.

"Savvy came through very well," he reminds her.

"Yeah." She glances down at the floor, hefting her bag higher on her shoulder.

"Addison …"

She glances up, and there are so many things he could say.

"…you should get a mammogram."

 _Okay, that's not what I was planning to say._

"A mammogram? I'm only thirty-eight," she frowns. "And I have no family history, and anyway studies show that mammography-"

"Just get one anyway." His tone is shorter than he intended.

"Derek." She touches his arm, looking surprised. "Did seeing Savvy go through this … I mean, are you …"

"It's important to monitor these things, that's all." He fumbles for his blackberry to busy his hands.

"I agree, honey, I _am_ an OB-GYN. But there's no reason. I know the field, and…"

She's still talking but he tunes her out, tapping his foot against the linoleum, his heartbeat suddenly loud in his ears.

"Derek … will you come back to the hotel with me tonight?" Her tone is soft and undemanding, but he can hear the plea within it.

…

He drives – some things don't change, even when everything else does – and she stares out the side window, her long hair hiding her expression every time he glances over. She looks small in the high seat of his jeep; something about the way she's curled in on herself makes him think of how small Savvy looked on the table and then in the endless white of the hospital bed. Neither of them should be small. They should be tall in taller shoes, stalking down sidewalks and through rooms, long bright hair swinging.

Two peas in a pod.

When they pull in she whispers _thank you for coming back here with me_ and he just nods, waiting for her to unlock the room. As the door swings open, she leans into him almost immediately, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her lips to his. He kisses her back for a moment, letting her lean against him and trying to lose himself in the moment.

Unwelcome images flash through his mind.

 _He's pushing the door open to their bedroom in New York. He's seeing Addison, her head thrown back, long hair dangling down her back, and he's seeing Mark, and he's hearing every last nauseating sound of their coupling that drove a stake through_ –

"No," he says, pulling back. "Stop."

"Sorry," she whispers. She presses her fingers to her lips. "I'm sorry, I just thought …"

He crosses the room and sits down heavily on the bed. "I'm not ready."

"Okay. Okay, I'm sorry, I don't mean to push you-"

"It's okay."

Tentatively, remembering his vow to try, he pats the bed next to him. She walks over carefully, like she's afraid to be burned. They've been dancing around each other in a wide berth: giving space, taking space, _occupying_ space.

She shrugs out of the cape-like sweater she was wearing almost sheepishly, suddenly seeming so much smaller in just her printed blouse. He has a sudden, unwelcome surge of protectiveness, something to do with how tired she seems, how narrow her shoulders are without the dramatic lapels of her sweater widening her profile.

It's this combination of anger and inadequacy that's making this so difficult – or one of the things that's making this so difficult. One minute he's gritting his teeth, furious at what she's done to their marriage; the next minute he's looking at the familiar lines of her expectant face and knowing he's disappointing her and despite everything he hates himself for it.

She's looking at him now, waiting for him to say something.

"Addison … I'm just not ready," he repeats.

"Okay, I understand."

But her tone is hurt; she smells like her perfume – lime and some kind of flower – mixed with the harsh soap at the hospital. This close, he can see how each strand of her long hair separates from the others; like always, he notices how the color changes along the shaft: red, then, gold, then red again. Individually the differences are obvious; together, it's one waterfall of complementary shades.

"I'm not ready, but … I _am_ trying."

For a moment they're both silent; he's distracted by the texture of her hair, because-

"Derek?"

She sounds confused now. He realizes his hand has risen almost of its own accord to touch her hair, tucking stray pieces behind her ear and then lingering. She speaks his name quietly, like she's afraid to startle him. Her eyes are wide and uncertain and they draw him toward her.

Slowly, he leans in and presses his lips against hers. She freezes for a moment, seeming surprised, and then responds with a quickness that makes up for it, melting into him. Her mouth is gentle and welcoming, the soft warm weight of her pushing them both down against the slippery fabric of the comforter. The contours of her body against his are painfully familiar, each rib and dip of her torso. His hands are molding at the small of her back and the curve of her shoulder, respectively, and then his fingers are tangling in her hair by memory alone.

"Wait."

She pulls back from him immediately, concern in her eyes. His gaze sweeps over her, noting the way her lips look puffy, a little swollen, her cheeks flushed; he can see the finger-tangles in her hair he used to impart on a regular basis. Her mouth quivers just a bit and he's so close to giving in, to going back.

"Derek," she says softly, and he hears her say his name and he remembers hearing her say _his_ name instead, and he feels a door slam shut again.

 _Like the bedroom door he slammed._

"I'm sorry." He reaches up to move some of her hair out of her face. "I'm sorry, Addison, I can't. Not yet."

"Okay." Her breath is a little heavy, but she nods.

"I'm not trying to –"

"I know. It's not your fault."

"I need time," he says.

"I can give you time," she whispers. "Whatever you need. I can, it's just – it's confusing."

"I'm confused too," he admits.

"Do you … want to talk about it?"

"You sound like Dr. Saltzmann."

"Well, he's the expert …." Her voice trails off and she sits up, crossing her legs. "Do you, Derek? I mean … do you want to talk about it?"

"I'm ... tired," he says on an exhale, feeling cowardly even if it's true.

She nods and pulls herself to the edge of the bed, pausing to pat his leg. "But you'll … I mean, you're still staying? Tonight?"

"I'm still staying."

There are no more words exchanged until they've peeled back the comforter and climbed into their respective sides of the bed.

"Derek…"

"Yeah." He's lying on his back, but he can see her out of the corner of his eye, her posture mirroring his.

"Do you, um … want to tell me anything?"

"What do you mean?"

"Like … talk."

"About what?"

"Anything."

"I don't know, Addie."

"Okay."

She's silent for long moments and he wonders if she's sleeping.

"You could, um, just say something that you _do_ know," she offers hesitantly.

He considers this. "Okay."

"So … um, what _do_ you know?"

 _I don't know anything._

That's what he knows; it's the only thing he feels certain about right now.

But she's still waiting, breathing patiently next to him.

"Say anything," she suggests. "Anything that you're thinking, or feeling, or … that kind of thing."

He thinks about it. "I don't want you to die."

"Okay," and there's a trill of laughter in her voice. "Well … thank you, Derek. I guess that's something."

"You're welcome." He flicks the bedside light and the room plunges into darkness.

"Derek…?"

"Yeah."

Her fingers find his on the crisp sheets. "I'll schedule a mammogram tomorrow."

"…that's all I'm asking," he says quietly.

Their hands are still entwined when the alarm wakes them at dawn.

* * *

 _Thank you, as always, for reading. You can see here, I'm sure, that I was influenced by Addison's encouraging Derek to have sex for the first time in the next episode. I could see something in between the episodes where this was discussed - and it must have come up - maybe like this, in a way that's sad but also hopeful (which is becoming a Flip the Script staple). Please keep your suggestions for flips coming - and please review and let me know what you think! Addek Revolution 2017, etc._


	13. Branches

**A/N:** Flip time! I'm really trying to update what I can but I realize The Climbing Way has gone far too long without an update. It's haaaard but I'm on it, I swear. Now, here's a flip for **M** **smiumiu** , who requested going off the deleted scene from Episode 3.02 where Derek is calling hotels looking for Addison. I fell in love with the idea - a deleted scene is perfect for a flip the script, since it's already a partial flip. The timing might be a little off - I tried my best, and ended up with Derek running into Addison between Izzie and Bailey (the last person she sees).

We all know what happened in this episode, but brief scene-setting for tradition's sake: Addison takes the day off to "do some drinking" since her "tear ducts are too proud" for crying ( _my baby!_ ). Derek is looking for her to break her heart because he's dreamy and stuff, and Richard tells him to give her some space and time instead. No, McDreamy must find her! So he ends up at the right hotel, which means he eventually _did_ track her down by calling hotels, which means the person who gave her that info should be fired. Just saying. Maybe he was able to find her hotel earlier, which means he was able to catch her earlier, and it might have gone something like this ...

* * *

Branches  
 _(3.02, "I Am a Tree")_

* * *

"No Shepherd? How about Montgomery-Shepherd? No? Just Montgomery, then."

He sighs, drumming his fingers on the desk next to the phone before he clicks the mouse and calls the next hotel on the screen.

"Forbes," he suggests, once he's run out of Montgomery-Shepherd variations. "Addison _anything –_ no, I don't expect you to give me a full guest list. I'm looking for my wife. Fine," he says sharply, "you go ahead and do that."

He rubs frustrated hands through his hair. Why does this have to be so difficult? Why does everything surrounding Addison have to be _so difficult?_ He's trying to do the right thing here – trying to find her and apologize and end it.

"Bradford," he suggests at the next hotel. " _Adrienne_ Shepherd – I know, I know, you said no Shepherd," and he starts all over again.

He's losing patience by the time he calls the last hotel on the list. There's no Addison Shepherd at that hotel, nor is there an Addison Montgomery, Forbes, or Bradford, or an Adrienne any of those names either. He's about to give up when he thinks of something.

"Deneuve," he says shortly. "Do you have a room for a Deneuve?" He waits for the answer. "Yes, Catherine. That's the one. _Thank_ you."

Bingo.

He hangs up with satisfaction.

Except now that the guessing game is over, a pit of dread is settling in his stomach. He'd figured out what happened before Richard told him, of course. Even if a third of her things hadn't been missing from the trailer, she left his tuxedo jacket spread out on the bed and the first thing he did was to dig his hand into the pocket and then curse loudly with no one to hear him but the trout.

He's halfway to his car – he has to do this, it's the _right_ thing to do –

She was in such a good mood at the prom. But he's not going to think about that. If anyone understands the throes of passion, it's Addison. She did it first. She understands.

… still, one drink first can't hurt.

It's already eight o'clock. Perfectly fine time to have one drink.

…

He makes his way to the bar, starting to mouth his order, when he sees a very familiar battered old fishing hat. It's sitting atop a slumped figure in an old barn coat.

" _Addison_?"

The fishing-hat-barn-coat creature turns around, slowly.

"Oh." That's all she says when she sees him, hooded eyes focusing only briefly on his face, and then she turns back to Joe. "Another," she slurs, obviously already pretty far gone.

 _Shit._

Derek glances at Joe, who nods slightly.

Carefully, he slides into the seat next to her.

"What're you doing?" Her breath assails him, he's pretty sure he gets the equivalent of one drink just from her exhale.

"Having a drink," he says simply.

She turns her body away from his, with no small effort.

She looks … well, drunk, that look she always gets from too much alcohol, where the already oversized irises of her blue-green eyes seem extra huge as if they're set loose in her face. She also looks exhausted, and miserable.

He didn't get her drunk, but he recognizes he's responsible for the latter two.

"Are you okay?"

She doesn't turn around or say anything.

He sighs.

" _Single_ scotch, single malt." Joe pushes the tumbler across the bar to him.

"How much has she had?" He glances at the martini in front of Addison. Rough choice for drinking yourself sick, but then Addison never made things easy for herself.

"More than man can count."

"You didn't cut her off?" Derek lifts an eyebrow.

"You're gonna blame _me_ for the state of her?" Joe's tone is mild but it's pretty clear that he knows what's causing Addison to drink this much.

"Point taken." Derek stares into his drink. "She's not planning to drive-"

"She asked me to call a cab for her at ten." Joe shrugs.

"She can't drink until ten," Derek frowns. "Not unless there's a stomach pump in that cab."

Joe shakes his head. "She's pretty upset."

Yeah … he can see that.

"Addison."

"Don't call me that."

"Don't call you … your name?" He touches her arm and she yanks it out of his reach, a bad idea because she almost slides off the other side of her seat.

"Go away, Derek."

"Addison …"

"You're free. Free, free, freeeeeeee," she drags out the syllable for the last iteration and flaps her hand in some kind of drunken impression of a bird. "That means I don't have to talk to you and you don't have to talk to me."

"I want to talk to you," he insists quietly.

"Oh, _now_ you want to talk."

"Addison."

"You only want to talk now because of the panties. The skanky panties." She turns to Joe, her voice a loud whisper. "The skanky panties he left in his tux pocket after he-"

"Okay, Addison, he gets it," Derek cuts her off.

"I've already heard the whole thing, no need to censor her," Joe says, shrugging when Derek glares.

"If you let me talk to you, I'll explain," he mutters.

"Explain." Addison tries to lean back, apparently forgetting there's no back, Derek braces her as subtly as he can before she notices. "There's an explanation … for the panties. Did they fall in there? Did they fall in there when you were walking under her open window playing a song on your freakin' boombox?"

She turns to Joe.

"'Cause they're in high school, get it? Not even high school. _Middle school._ She's twelve years old," she adds. "My husband is sleeping with a twelve-year-old," she announces, and several people glance over at them.

"Metaphorical twelve-year-old," he corrects loudly. "Very, very much not legally twelve. Addison," he hisses, "can you please keep it down?"

"And take it easy on the twelve-year-old," Joe suggests mildly. "She's not the one who was married. Remember, he screwed her over too."

"Thank you, for that," Derek glares at him again.

"Hey." Joe raises both hands innocently. "Bartenders are neutral. We're the Switzerland of the drunk world."

Addison suddenly tips her head back and drains her glass, then starts coughing.

"I think you've had enough," Derek says quickly.

"That is _in_ correct, I'll know I had enough when I stop – "

"When you stop what?"

"Nothing," she mutters. "Go away. Joe, make him go away."

"It's a public bar, doc. Open to everyone."

Addison sighs, propping her face in her fist.

"What's with the hat?" Derek asks, figuring a change of subject can't hurt.

"What about it?"

"Well, it's mine, first of all."

"It looks better on me."

Most things do, in general, as he's noticed throughout his relationship with her, but the bucket hat seems to be an exception.

"You didn't work today?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Why do you care?"

"I want to know if you're okay."

"Do I _look_ okay?" She doesn't wait for an answer. "Joe … another."

"No," Derek says quickly. "She's had enough."

"He's not the boss of me," she slurs to Joe. "He's not my boyfriend anymore."

"I haven't been your boyfriend in twelve years, Addison."

" _Really_?" She ponders this. "Too bad, you were a good boyfriend."

He sighs.

"You were _not_ a good husband. Joe, he wasn't. He really wasn't. You probably think he's good at everything but he's not."

"He's not good at everything." Joe smiles fondly at Addison. "You're a better tipper. And so's the twelve-year-old, come to think of it."

"I'm a good tipper," Derek protests.

"But you're a bad husband."

"And you weren't exactly wife of the year," he reminds her.

"See? _Meant_ for each other." She smiles tipsily at him. "Go away, Derek, I don't want to see you anymore."

"I hear you," he says quietly, "but we have to see each other, we have things to straighten out, between us, and I want to talk to you."

"No. I wanted to talk to you for months. I wanted to talk to you for _ears._ " She pauses. "Wait, that's not right. For _years._ I wanted to talk to you and you didn't come home. Now I'm drinking. I found panties and I'm drinking and you're not invited."

She exhales heavily as if the speech took a lot out of her.

"Let me take you back to your hotel."

"I hate you," she responds.

"I know. I can tell. Let me take you back to your hotel anyway so you can sleep it off."

"You don't even know where I'm staying," she slurs.

"Yes, I do. The Archfield. Come on, Addison, let's go."

" _How_ did you know?" She stares at him. "I didn't tell anybody, not even Prichard."

"Richard."

"Whatever." She narrows her eyes at him. "How did you –"

He just nods.

Her face changes. "Okay," she says quietly. "I'll go with you. But Joe," she calls over her shoulder, "if I wash up at the fish market tomorrow tell the police _everything._ "

Several people look over at them again.

"Metaphorical fish market," Derek mutters as he pushes her in front of him out the door.

...

The first thing he tells her, after the complex adventure of finding her room when she refuses to show him her key card – he finally has to distract her with his keys like a toddler at a photo session – is this: "You need a shower."

The door to her hotel room swings shut decisively behind him. He's still holding onto her arm and she's still unsteady.

"Hm." She considers his suggestion. "Will you shower with me?"

"That … wouldn't be a good idea."

"Then no shower, because it's too hard," she whines, taking her arm from his grip, attempting to sit on the bed and missing, sliding down to the floor.

"Okay, new plan," he reaches down to pull her to her feet. "I'll help you. Fine. But just … remember where we are."

"Where are we?"

"We're in your hotel room," he says patiently, "where you moved because you hate me."

"'cause of the panties." She nods solemnly. "Did you hate _me_? After … Mark?"

He nods.

"But you don't hate me now, huh?"

"No, I don't hate you now."

" _So._ " She adopts a conspiratorial whisper. "What's your secret? How did you do it?"

He pulls the battered jacket off her arms and tosses it onto the chair. "How did I do it? I … pretended you didn't exist. When I first moved here."

"Oh." She seems to be considering this.

Derek plucks the old canvas bucket hat off her head and she shrieks. "I need that, I need that!"

"You definitely don't need it. No one needs that hat."

"My hair, though," she says wistfully, tugging on the ends of it. "So I'm gonna pretend you don't exist. And then I won't be sad. Right? I had so many drinks and I'm still sad."

"I don't know," he says honestly. "I don't know if that was the right way to do it."

"But you're not sad." She's standing very close to him, and she still reeks of alcohol. Her face is flushed.

"I'm not _not sad._ I'm … sad," he admits. "This is sad."

"Yeah," she says quietly. "Yeah, it's sad. Derek…"

"Hm?" He's studying her, trying to figure out the best way to get her into the shower without crossing any lines.

"I don't feel so good."

"No?" He looks up just in time for her to pitch forward.

 _Shit._

She blinks awake on the carpet and looks stunned to see his face above hers.

"Derek?" Her voice is shaky and uncertain.

"Hey." He moves some of her hair out of her face. "How do you feel now?"

"Awful."

"Joe should have cut you off." Derek shakes his head. "Come on, a shower will help. Slowly," he cautions her, helping her to her feet. She leans heavily on him on the way to the bathroom. It's a massive glass-and-marble haven, and he recognizes some of her neatly organized cosmetics from the trailer.

Which means they won't be there when he goes back to the trailer, and he will be able to reach his own things without pawing through her endless toiletries.

Which is good.

And should make him happy.

And it _will_ , he's sure of it, after this strange feeling passes through him.

Trying to help Addison take her clothes off feels like an intricately choreographed dance to which no one taught him the steps. That, and a wrestling match. He finally strips the last shirt over her head – Addison and her layers – and decides better of removing anything else.

"Take off your pants," he instructs her.

"You take off your pants," she giggles.

 _Great._

"Addison … come on, just unbutton them."

"S'not _just_ ," she complains, "buttons are hard," but she does lean over and fumble around the fly of her jeans, except that was obviously a mistake because she stands up abruptly, her flushed face now drained of all color except –

Yup, there it is. Green.

"Addison," he says hastily, "do you-"

He's interrupted by the first of what he can tell will be a series of violent heaves; he manages to position her over the toilet just in time, though he doesn't quite succeed in getting all her hair out of the way the first time. Wincing slightly, he gathers the rest of it the second time.

"I feel horrible," she moans.

"You drank half of Joe's," he reminds her. "You'll feel better once it's up."

"You're so mean." Her eyes are bleary and bloodshot, broken blood vessels making it look like she's been crying even though she hasn't. "You don't even care that I'm dying."

"You're not dying, you're drunk." He stands up to wet a washcloth.

"Where are you going?"

"To the sink, Addison," he says patiently. "No, don't – don't try to stand up. I think I can manage this part myself."

She hunkers down over the bowl and promptly starts vomiting again.

Her stomach really holds a surprising amount, he muses when he realizes she's still not finished. He pulls her hair out of the way and moves the cloth along the back of her neck. She moans, somewhere between pain and appreciation, and when she sits up he wipes her face.

"Done?"

She nods slowly.

He thinks she's probably right. Her face isn't green anymore, it's more like a pale grey.

"Okay." He moves a few sticky strands of hair off her face. "I'm going to run a shower for you. Just … sit there, for now," he suggests, not wanting her stand up quite yet.

When she does stand it's a two-person effort. She's significantly less drunk now, but she's weaker and obviously exhausted; he ends up taking her pants off himself while kneeling in front of her and pretending he's not two inches from an area of her body that no longer has anything to do with him.

She runs her hands through his hair and hums distractedly while he undresses her, she's either still drunk or mildly dissociating. He reminds himself he can't exactly blame her for either.

He strips down to his boxers and undershirt, trying not to notice that Addison is now whistling gentlemen's club-style music through her cupped hands. The position actually makes it easier for him to lift her; he hauls to her feet by her upper arms as she lets out one last wolf whistle. It's long and loud, but actually rather mournful.

"Be careful," he reminds her, helping her into the shower.

"I know, I know," she mutters, then promptly shrieks when the water hits her, gets a mouthful, and starts coughing violently. Part of him wouldn't mind jumping away in case the coughs turn into more vomiting, but they don't and he stays by her side, holding her up with one hand and rubbing her back with the other.

"You tried to drown me," she mumbles when she's upright again.

"Save it for Joe." He pushes her wet hair out of her face and wraps her fingers around a bar of soap. "Wash."

She sniffs the soap, then scowls.

"Take this off, it's itchy," she whines, fussing with the lace on the cups of her bra.

"Just leave it on," he says, moving her hands down. "And rinse off, Addison-"

"Then I'll take it off," she scowls, and tries to move her hands behind her back, almost losing her balance.

"Addison!" He sighs. "Fine, just … hold still."

He unhooks her bra and she dangles it triumphantly from one hand. "Much better."

He keeps his eyes on her face. "Good. Finish up, so we can-"

"Does Meredith know you're taking a shower with me?" Her voice is a playful whisper.

"No, I didn't exactly plan this." He grimaces. "Hurry up, Addison, you're just trying to clean, not getting ready for-"

His voice breaks off.

"For prom?"

He looks away, but keeps one hand on her waist to steady her.

"I waited for you," she says softly.

He forces himself to meet her eyes. He knows he deserves to see how much he hurt her, but his instinct is still to hide. And it shouldn't be, he knows, because she apologized to him so many times, and she was honest about everything, honest-

"I lied, though."

"You did?"

She nods.

"What did you lie about?"

"Can we talk about it later?" Her eyes are practically closed, hot water running over her face.

"Yes. Fine."

If getting her into the shower was difficult, getting her out of it is a new challenge altogether. She's wet, slippery, and as tall as he is, a dangerous combination.

Finally they're both out with all limbs intact, Addison shivering on the bathmat in nothing but soaking wet panties (that match her bra; even drunk with no makeup in a fishing hat that should have gone to goodwill a decade ago, her underwear matches), hugging herself.

He wraps her in the fluffy white hotel robe, straightening the collar around her neck and belting it closed before, wincing, he strips off the last of her wet lingerie.

"Don't put 'em in your pocket," she mutters when he stands up with her panties in one hand.

"Very funny." He drops them quickly, then at her glare picks them off the bathmat and hangs them from one of the faucets.

"Is your spa treatment done now?"

"No," she answers seriously. "My hair."

"What about your hair?"

"You need to comb it. Or it'll frizz."

"Addison."

"You _need_ to." She points a shaking finger toward the marble counter, where he spots a tortoise-shell wide-tooth comb that's apparently followed her from New York.

"Fine," he mutters. "Just … "

Finally he seats her on the little bench at the vanity and stands behind her, combing out her long, wet hair. She helps by whimpering whenever he gets through a tangle.

"Fine. All done."

"Thanks." She takes his proffered hand to stand, unsteadily.

"Derek…"

"Yeah."

They're eye to eye in bare feet. She rests a hand on his shoulder to keep her balance, looking like she might fall asleep on her feet.

"You're sorry?"

"I'm sorry," he confirms.

"But you're also happy."

"I don't know," he says honestly.

"But it's what you wanted…"

He just looks away for a moment, gathering himself, then leads her out of the bathroom and into the comparatively cooler bedroom, both of them shivering. Derek is still wearing his wet underthings.

"You must be cold," Addison says tentatively when they're standing next to her bed, touching the wet fabric on his chest.

"I'm okay."

"Derek…"

Her voice trails off. Their faces are very close now. Nothing seems as straightforward when there's this little distance between them, when he can count every eyelash fluttering on her cheeks. Her lashes are naturally, a medium reddish-brown color; she prefers the look of darker mascara, but he likes them this way. She once threatened to get them permanently tinted and he begged her not to.

She wasn't wearing any makeup at all the first time he met her. Her eyes were hidden behind clear safety goggles, but he could still see them so well.

"Derek?"

Her voice is small and hesitant. She's looking up at him.

Slowly, he finds himself moving closer to her. So close that his lips are brushing hers and then they're-

She pulls back.

"I have to tell you something," she whispers.

"What is it?" He's breathing a little fast, nonplussed from being so close to her, so close to … doing something stupid.

"Mark's kind of flying to Seattle."

"Mark is …" he draws back from her. "What? As in _Mark_ , Mark?"

"Yeah, Mark Mark." She sighs. "I called him when you … when I found the panties."

"And?"

"And he said he couldn't beat you up because he'd be a hippo." She pauses. "Hypocrite. Right. That's what he said. But he said he would come and make me feel better."

An unpleasant sensation is spreading in his chest. "A trans-continental booty call? Really, Addison?"

"I can have booty." She scowls. "You had booty at the prom, why can't I have booty?"

"You can. You can do whatever you want."

"But I don't want to do whatever I want. I want to do _you._ That's the problem!"

She covers her mouth with her hands. "Forget I said that. I didn't say that."

"It's okay."

"None of it's okay. It's not okay." Her eyes are bright with unshed tears now. "Derek … is our marriage over?"

 _I don't know._

He would have said _yes_ at the trailer, _yes_ at the hospital, hell even _yes_ at Joe's, but he's awash with uncertainty now, drowning in the undefinable color of her eyes and he just doesn't. Fucking. Know.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "It's all my fault."

She laughs a little, not sounding amused at all. "Prom is your fault. What happened to our marriage is my-"

"-our," he corrects her. "It's our fault."

"I wanted to fix it," she murmurs. "But you didn't …."

"I thought I did."

"You weren't trying."

"I wanted to try."

She reaches out tentatively and he lets her touch his cheek, slide her fingers into his hair. "How can it just be over?"

He has no fucking clue.

The last third of their lives. The last almost _half_ of their lives.

"I don't know," he admits. "I don't know how to do any of this."

She lowers her gaze.

"Addison …" He takes her hand down from his hair, holding it between both of his. He fingers the rings she's still wearing.

"Don't go," she says suddenly. "I mean … not like that, just we didn't talk yet. We need to talk more."

"Yeah." He exhales heavily. "We do need to talk more."

She looks at him hesitantly, almost hopefully, and he wonders what happened to his confidence that all he needed to do was to apologize and say goodbye. Wonders how the same woman can keep surprising him after sixteen years.

 _When something is over, it should just be over._

That's what he told Richard. So why isn't this over?

It stands to reason … that it shouldn't be. That's what a little voice inside his head is saying.

He needs a minute. He needs to process. He needs to … stop chafing, that would be good too.

"Addison," he starts carefully. "My clothes are all wet. I'm going to go dry off and then … we can talk." He pauses. "How are you feeling now?"

"Empty," she says.

"Your stomach?"

"That too," she sighs.

He sits down on the bed next to her. "I'm sorry. For everything."

"Me too, for everything," she whispers.

"Okay." He tucks some wet hair behind her ear. "Call and order something from room service to soak up all those martinis, okay?"

"I think the martinis are all gone."

"Order some food anyway."

"You want anything?"

"I'll just have some of what you get," he responds.

"What if I don't want to share?"

"You always want to share."

"What if I want it all for myself?"

"You never want it all for yourself," he reminds her patiently.

She smiles a little.

"Okay. I'm gonna go … you stay and call room service."

She nods.

He waits to make sure she's sitting up on her own and then pads into the bathroom.

 _Stupid,_ he tells his reflection. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

He hears Bailey's voice: _You have put yourself between two very fine women._

He's supposed to be the good guy. But all he sees when he looks at his reflection are sad eyes that don't belong to him.

First Addison's.

Then Meredith's.

Then Addison's again.

And maybe Meredith's again too.

 _Stupid,_ he adds one last time before stripping down.

He hangs up his damp clothes; they'll dry enough while they eat that he can wear them home. He showers, taking some time under the pounding water to curse himself a few more times.

There's a second white robe hanging in the bathroom, but he doesn't want to be presumptuous, so he just wraps one of the many bath towels around his waist instead.

He can hear the faraway click of a door and then muffled voices outside in the room. The food must already be here – good.

He steps out of the bathroom door in a cloud of steam to see Addison seated on the bed in her bathrobe and Mark Sloan setting a suitcase down on the carpet. Addison stares straight ahead; Mark turns to Derek with a look of disbelief on his face.

"Oh." Derek pulls the towel tighter around his waist, glancing at his former best friend. "This is awkward."

* * *

 _THE END. I love this ending. I can't lie. I can't be modest. I have to be like Derek and his hair and admit I love it. So, kernels of things: he spent some time with her, they were together a little, maybe it's not as simple as he thought for their marriage to be over. Is it saved? I don't know. But this could be one little step, the whole glory of Flip the Script. THANK YOU for reading and thank you in advance for reviewing! PS **Msmiumiu** you are a champion reviewer of this site and that is why you deserve a Flip the Script the same day you requested one. xoxo_


	14. The Distance in Your Eyes

**A/N:** TFW you're on a flip the script kick ... so here's another flip. Several people requested a prom flip, which I've wanted to do but hadn't quite figured out how. And then it came to me today while drinking iced tea. (I realize you don't need to know the iced tea part, but hey, maybe you're interested!) So here's a flip of "Losing My Religion," aka the episode where Addison reminded Derek how traumatic her high school prom was, and then he helped her get over it by giving her way more traumatic memories to replace it.

This is short. And I'm going to confess why. I really want to turn this into a longer story, but I'm a shameless story-starter and I don't want to get too far in over my head BUT this is actually an idea I haven't written yet, so I think it could work. Read and let me know what you think.

So. Here we are at Seattle Grace, where patients are left to their own devices while every doctor at the hospital dresses up and goes to a teenager's prom in the cafeteria. Good stuff. Derek stand together at the punch bowl and ogle Meredith like a creeper and then Finn goes to greet her and Addison walks up to Derek. Familiar dialogue comes from that moment. And then they dance ("I never dance in public," Derek told Meredith at the beginning of the season. Hmmm...). They dance and then Derek and Meredith start eyeing each other and then - well, then this could have happened ...

* * *

 **The Distance in Your Eyes** _  
(2.27, "Losing My Religion")_

* * *

Silver balloons, bad tuxes, and non-alcoholic punch that does nothing to take the sting away from her date's attention being elsewhere.

It's a prom, all right.

She finds her husband at the aforementioned non-alcoholic punch bowl (it doesn't miss that he's standing with the vet, and something tells her they're not discussing canine euthanasia) and nervous chatter starts spilling from her mouth before she can intervene.

"This whole thing is bringing back very traumatic memories of being a band geek with braces and a lisp and spending the whole evening with Skippy Gold spending the whole evening talking about _Star Wars_."

He's angled away from her while she talks. A quick flit of her eyes and her peripheral vision reveals Meredith greeting her date. Her vet date.

"So, you want to, um …dance?" She's the only one he'll publicly dance with. So if he says yes, if he still says yes, then that's something.

"Love to."

And he actually smiles. Her heart thumps against the bodice of her dress.

"Skippy didn't even want to ask me. Bizzy made some sort of connection on the museum board and his mother wanted to curry favor. You know, the Connecticut version of arranged marriage."

She stops talking when he doesn't respond.

"Derek?"

"Yeah."

His hand is splayed between her bare shoulder blades – he's always liked dresses cut low in the back – and his other hand has hers tucked against his chest. She stops talking then, just enjoying the closeness, the warmth of his body connecting with hers. His head touches hers, just briefly, and she remembers the way they swayed at their wedding, heads inclined toward each other, his curls brushing the elaborate updo that took almost an hour to take down in their suite that night …

They made the hour memorable, though. They made it count.

She considers reminding him of that night. Wonders if he remembers it. If he remembers how happy they used to be.

At least he's dancing with her, even if he seems distracted. She inclines her head carefully, daringly, to touch his again and then something vibrates against her chest.

"Oh." She draws back. "Is that one of our phones, or are you just happy to see me?" She smiles nervously.

"Yours or mine?"

He reaches into the breast pocket of his tux and looks at the phone. "Yours." He's been carrying it for her since she doesn't have a purse; now he drops it into her hand.

"Sorry. See, that never happened at proms when we were teenagers. Progress, right?" She laughs a little in that nervous way again. "Let me just check... "

Her voice trails off.

"What?"

"It's Susan." She's staring at the phone. "Maybe she has spies in Seattle and she heard me take Bizzy's name in vain."

"Do you want to take it?"

"No, it's fine. Let's dance." She hands him back the phone and moves toward him again, already anticipating the rough-smooth brush of his sleeve against her bare skin.

But the phone starts buzzing again as soon as she's in his arms.

"I can power it down," she offers just as he says, "maybe you should take it."

"Okay. Just – don't go anywhere." She smiles at him like she's kidding and picks up the phone.

"Susan? This isn't really a good time – wait, what?"

She stops in the middle of the dance floor and girl she doesn't recognize steps on her foot in a sharp stiletto. She cries out in spite of herself, the girl mutters apologies and then Addison does too, into the phone. "No, I'm here, I'm listening. Where? Okay. Okay, I will."

And she flees toward the doors.

"Addison!"

She doesn't realize he's behind her until his hand reaches out, brushing her bare arm. "Where are you going?"

"I have to go." She stalks down the hallway, her shoes loud, the mermaid skirt of her dress inhibiting movement. She'd like to tear it off.

"You have to go where? Addison, slow down."

"I can't slow down."

"Why not?"

"It's my father. He's in the hospital. Susan said – Susan said it's bad."

 _It's bad._ That's not what doctors say. It's what scared families say. _You need to come. Come quickly._

"I'm sorry." His hand is on her arm, and she's shivering, suddenly freezing in her sleeveless dress.

"I need to … go out there, Susan's going to call me back with the arrangements. I need to go."

"I understand." He's nodding.

"It's been so long," she whispers.

"I know." His face is grim when she tries to focus on it. Of course it is. He remembers.

"Okay." She exhales heavily, trying to organize her thoughts. "So I'm – I'll just –"

Wait, where's her purse?

"I just – I don't have keys, what am I doing? You have my keys. I think. No, you drove." Everything feels quick, blurry, she knows she's not making much sense.

"Addison." His hand is on her shoulder now. "I drove. I have keys. Let me drive you back so you can-"

"No. No, you should stay. Richard wants us all to stay."

"There are plenty of people here for his prom. You're too worked up to drive."

His arm is around her now, supporting her, and she lets him. She doesn't say _why weren't you looking at me?_ It suddenly doesn't seem important; her vision is narrowed to one small tunnel.

 _It's bad. You need to come._

She gives him a final out, as they push through the lobby doors.

"You can stay, Derek. You can stay and I'll go."

"It's a high school prom in a hospital cafeteria. Trust me, I'm not missing much. Besides, Richard saw us, we made an appearance."

"Okay." She nods slowly.

"You're shivering." He sheds his tuxedo jacket and drapes it over her shoulders.

She glances at him. It's an automatic movement, she knows, but she appreciates it as the warmth of the fabric surrounds her. it smells like him.

She dips both hands into the empty pockets of her husband's tuxedo jacket to warm herself and, with his hand at the small of her back, she lets him lead her to the car.

As the brightness of the lobby grows smaller, she realizes he's right. The prom is practically over, anyway. What could they possibly miss?

* * *

 _The end OR IS IT? Truthfully, I'd like to continue. I've never tried reconciling them at this point in the season, and interestingly there's a fair amount of closeness in the last few episodes - coupliness, you could say - along with the difficult stuff. I promise I won't start expanding every flip, but since this is actually a teeny bit off the beaten path, I thought it could work. Plus, you know. Connecticut! Bizzy! Captain! Archer! Derek's family! It's like an Addekstravaganza just waiting for them ... Please review and let me know what you think!_

 _PS Title from "Losing My Religion," of course. Thank you REM for the title fodder. And also THANK YOU for all the love on the last flip. I think it was one of my favorites, actually._


	15. Just a Dog

**A/N:** Happy Friday, Script Flippers! **Thank you** to all of you wonderful Addek revolutionaries who have been reading and commenting on this series. I love you like Addison and Derek love that one place - no, the other place. And since today is **Fluffy Friday,** here's a (long) flip of "Tell Me Sweet Little Lies."

Quick orientation: Doc has been out of control at the intern frat house which leads both to some amusing scenes and to Addison and Derek adopting Doc. In the last scene, Meredith (and George and Izzie) bring Doc and his paraphernalia out to the trailer for the very symbolic Handing Over of the Leash (seriously, I just rewatched this, and it's basically slow-mo when Meredith hands Addison Derek's, I mean Doc's, leash). Addison looked really happy to get a dog and totally on board, which is interesting, considering - well, considering a lot of things. So what would have happened if the episode kept going after Meredith left? Enjoy!

* * *

 **Just a Dog  
** _(2.14, "Tell Me Sweet Little Lies")_

* * *

Addison loves dogs.

And she knows this might surprise some people.

 _Addison loves shoes._ This would surprise no one. _Addison loves delivering babies._ That's a given. _Addison loves tearing down arrogant interns._ Well, that's just human nature.

But dogs … messy, slobbery, affectionate-at-all-the-wrong-times, licking and humping everything in sight without any discernment?

(Okay, admittedly, that could also describe Mark Sloan, so there's some precedent.)

The point is, she loves dogs.

There was one dog she loved first.

Robert Redford, Red for short, a beautiful tricolor collie she played with every summer on the Vineyard. Red was her constant companion: he would run happily alongside her as she rode her bike up island and down, walk her to the gazebo to play in the grass, lead her out for ice cream at night, and sleep curled up at the foot of her bed. When Addison fell over the handlebars of her bike in Oak Bluffs, Red ran ahead of them while Archer carried her back to the cottage. The nanny told her later that Red burst into the yard barking up a storm, _just like Lassie!_ Addison, who had been crying more out of fear of Bizzy's reaction than pain, stopped at that and beamed at Red.

Red wasn't _her_ dog, exactly – her parents didn't go in for pets; they barely went in for children – but she learned quickly that referring to him as _the caretaker's dog_ didn't go over well once she left boarding school.

Nor did Red's provenance: his full name was Mr. Robert Redford du Maverick IV – or that's how he would have been registered with the AKC. But despite being the product of ten generations of show winners, he was excommunicated for having eyebrows that lacked prominence. (Privately, Addison thought the enormously bushy white eyebrows on Hank the caretaker could have been sufficient by proxy.)

Even as a little girl, Addison was aware that Red's swift removal from his showman ancestry was an excellent reminder of just how tenacious those links to old families can be. One day you're a puppy brimming with potential, the next day you're out on your slightly crooked tail roaming a Vineyard estate with a cranky old gardener.

Addison never forgot this.

She kept the collie in mind when Bizzy criticized her ungainly growth spurts, her oversized feet, and her red hair. Not because she was afraid to meet his fate – Addison often thought she wouldn't mind getting kicked out of the family and sent to live in a nice peaceful country house where all she had to do was run around the grass and cuddle up with someone who actually liked her at night.

(Addison knew for a fact that Hank, the mostly-cranky caretaker, had a soft spot for only two things: the Boston Red Sox, and Red the collie. Red listened to every game on the radio with him; Hank trained him to bark when the Sox scored.)

When the summer ended and Addison and Archer went back to Connecticut with whichever nannies were on duty, Red returned to his everyday life of roaming the gardens and running up and down the beach, avoiding crabs. And Addison would spend her first few weeks back in reality, whether at her parents' house or, later, in the dorm room she shared with girls whose laughter was reserved for each other, missing the warm weight of Red curled at the foot of her bed.

Sometimes she wished Red could come live with her in Connecticut. But she'd never want him to leave Hank. They were completely devoted to each other.

Hank liked to say _dogs are better than people_. Considering he worked for her parents, Addison agreed with that calculus.

The point is, Addison loved Red and Red loved her back, unconditionally.

The point is … Addison still loves dogs.

And she loves this particular dog on sight. Doc is fluffy and alert with pointed little ears, all shaggy fur and eager bright eyes.

She's not blind; she can see the look those interns are giving her as she drops to her haunches in front of Doc, ruffling his fur with both hands and stroking his muzzle. She knows what they're thinking.

Satan isn't supposed to wear jeans.

Satan isn't supposed to get excited over an eagerly panting mutt whose tongue is currently bathing her very thoroughly.

And Satan definitely isn't supposed to casually leave her husband alone with his former mistress.

But ... Satan would rather spend some time with Doc.

"Come on, Doc."

Doc follows her happily. She maneuvers her way back into the trailer holding his food dish and supplies as well as his leash, balancing the screen door on her hip. She glances back just once; Derek and Meredith are conversing by themselves while the other inters wait in the car, and for one minute she's back in boarding school watching Heather and Talbot giggle over _Vogue_ together right there in her shared bedroom while they pretended she didn't exist.

Then Doc's cold, wet nose butts into her hand and the memory of her dorm at Miss Lowell's disappears.

"You are such a good boy. Yes, you are." She rubs his muzzle, enjoying the texture of his fur, and he looks at her lovingly.

… which is a nice change from how the two-legged creature in the trailer usually looks at her.

She's setting up his food when Derek opens the trailer door. Doc bounds over to him, then back to Addison to kiss her face a few more times. She laughs and scratches his ears and he turns his shaggy head to bathe her hands.

"Why are you so happy?"

She glances up at his words. "Have you seen this dog? How can you not be happy around this dog?"

"I gather they weren't very happy around him at Meredith's house."

"Maybe they don't know how to live with a dog."

"But you do," his tone is doubtful.

"You don't know everything about me," she reminds him.

Derek is still standing over her; she can tell by his shadow falling on both her and Doc, but her attention is on the dog.

"Meredith says he's not housebroken," he points out.

"Well, neither were you when I met you, but you eventually figured it out."

She doesn't see his reaction because she's already returned to Doc, scratching his ears, his muzzle. "Look how sweet he is, Derek. He was probably just under-stimulated with a bunch of interns working all hours. In fact … he needs some more exercise before he settles down for the night, I think. You want to take him out with me?"

"What, right now?"

Addison nods.

"Meredith said she already walked him."

"He could use another walk. Without sufficient exercise, he's not going to sleep. You want to get up at five a.m. with him?"

"No," he concedes. "But it's late."

"Even more reason to figure out a way for all three of us to sleep through the night." She pauses. "Aren't you always saying there's a fantastic trail close by?"

"Yes, but it's in the woods."

"So? Doc will like the woods."

"It's not _Doc_ I think won't like the woods."

She sits back on her heels. "I don't mind the woods."

"Really." He cocks his head. "That's new."

"Well, so's the dog."

"True." He starts unbuttoning his shirt. "But it's late. We can walk him in the woods another time."

"I'm going to take him now." She stands up, ruffling the top of the dog's furry head when he jumps up on her.

"Now?" Derek looks doubtful.

She waits for the same husband who didn't like her to walk the twenty short blocks from the hospital after ten to tell her he's fine with her wandering in the woods without any idea where she's going.

Possibly _hoping_ she'll get eaten by a bear. That would make his life easier, wouldn't it?

She has a moment of amusement at how annoyed Bizzy would be for her to have such an undignified death – almost makes the idea worth it, in fact…

And then squashes it down. She's not going to be eaten by a bear, she's going to take her dog for a walk. Alone. And that's fine. She squats to refasten Doc's leash.

But Derek speaks before she can open the trailer door.

"All right. Let's go for a walk."

She looks up at him. "Really?"

"Really." He reaches his hand down and she takes it, letting him pull her to her feet.

…

"It's beautiful out here," she admits as they walk along the trail; it's dark but they have flashlights, and Doc is in heaven leaping from one exciting new scent to another.

"So you do like the woods."

"I told you that."

They walk silently for long moments, Addison occasionally talking to Doc when he brings back a particularly fragrant new toy to show them.

"Thank you," Derek says quietly after Addison admires a chunk of moss, "for agreeing to let Doc live with us."

She glances at him; it's too dark to see his expression since they're pointing their flashlights ahead. It smells fresh and piney on the trail. "It's just a dog."

"Dogs are a lot of work."

"I know that."

"You've never lived with a dog."

"Yes, I have."

"Your parents let a dog live in their house?" His tone is doubtful. "I thought they barely let you and Archer live there."

It's a fair summation; the Montgomery siblings didn't just to boarding school for the excellent education – or even the networking opportunities.

"Not in the house, in the cottage. Well, technically he belonged to the caretaker." She smiles, picturing Red's alert, intelligent face, and the way his thick fur felt between her fingers. "But I spent every summer with him." Save for a few short-term nannies who took a liking to her, Red was the only creature she can recall from her childhood who actually liked her.

"Well … I appreciate it. And I think Doc does too."

She smiles a little at this. "He's a good dog. And anyway, I'm … kind of responsible for why the interns had him in the first place," she admits.

"You? How are you responsible?"

"You told me Meredith said they adopted the dog to cheer Stevens up when her quint died."

"Right."

"Remember when I was an intern, and Richard decided I needed to learn distance to become a better doctor?"

"I remember," Derek says. "You didn't speak to him for almost a year."

She can tell from his tone that he hasn't changed his decade-old tune that Richard's trick was underhanded at best.

"Well, I did the same thing to Stevens. And I guess it upset her enough to need a dog." She pauses, giving Doc time to sniff a rock he's decided is particularly fascinating.

"Oh." Derek stops too. "I thought Stevens was going to be your protégé."

"Yeah, I thought so too. But now she hates me. Which brings the grand total of people at Seattle Grace who don't hate me to … Richard."

"Addison…"

"Adele doesn't work there so she doesn't count. I guess Miranda Bailey, too. I like her. So, two."

"You're not counting me?" He takes Doc's leash from her hand just as the dog decides to move on from the rock and start scampering along the darkened trail again. Addison points her flashlight ahead to guide their path.

"Should I?"

"I took you back," he reminds her. "We're trying."

"That doesn't mean you don't hate me."

"Well, I don't." He sounds somewhere between confused and amused.

She doesn't respond.

"Addison."

"Yes?"

"Why would you want to stay with me if you thought I hated you?"

"Maybe I think I can change your mind."

Maybe she already has.

"Ah." He hands her back the leash and takes the heavier flashlight from her. "You have a high opinion of your persuasive skills."

"You're living with me – maybe I don't."

"You're living in a trailer, though."

"True." She moves faster as Doc tugs on the leash. "But maybe when Doc shows us how housebroken he _isn't_ , you'll realize you want an actual house."

"A house."

"Yes, Derek, a house. They have houses in Seattle, don't they? Or did you buy all the land just for that tiny trailer?"

He doesn't answer.

"It's nice land. A house would look good on it." She steps carefully over an uneven portion of the path.

"I like the trailer."

"Well, I hope you also like the smell of wet dog. And barks echoing off those tin … things."

"…you mean walls?"

"Whatever." She sighs as Doc turns around and bounds back toward them as if to make sure they're still there. Addison crouches down to receive him, rubbing his muzzle, scratching his ears, and speaking to him in what can only be called _doggie voice,_ the one her co-workers can never, ever _ever_ hear.

"You have a dog voice." She can tell from Derek's tone he's smiling. "Addison Shepherd has a _dog voice_."

"So?"

"So, I guess you were right, Addie. I don't know everything about you."

She glances at him, the leash warm in her hand. "Then I guess it's a good thing you have more time to learn," she says quietly, her tone hesitant.

"Yeah, I guess it is." He turns to smile at her, then takes the leash from her and starts jogging up the trail, Doc leaping enthusiastically at his side.

"Hey!" She picks up speed to chase them, flashlight in her hand. "It's dark!"

"But you love the woods," he reminds her, slowing down so she can keep pace. "Remember? You're the one who insisted on a walk."

"True, but –" and then Doc leaps up to lick her or nose her or just enjoy the fresh air and the leash twines around her ankle.

She curses as she hits the dirt path.

"Addison!"

"I'm okay," she calls into the darkness; she's dropped her flashlight. She hasn't let go of the leash, though; Doc is nosing her gently and whining softly, apparently realizing his role in her tumble.

He's crouching on the path in front of her. "This is my fault. We shouldn't have been running."

"We were barely trotting, and it's Doc's fault if it's anyone's."

He skims his hands over her legs. "Are you hurt?"

"I don't think so." She fell decently with bent knees and most of her weight landing on her … relatively padded areas.

"Are you sure? Here," he takes the leash from her clenched hand and loops it around her wrist, then takes both her arms to help her stand.

"Ow!" She pitches forward as she puts weight on what she realizes is her twisted ankle.

"Careful," he scolds her, and supports her as she stands one-footed.

"I guess I twisted my ankle."

"Can you walk?"

"I don't know."

He holds out his bent arm, clearly braced for her weight, and she takes it, putting as little pressure on her twisted ankle as she can, but –

"I guess not," she says as her leg almost gives way again. "Damn it. How far are we?"

"We looped around a while ago. Not that far. Maybe a mile."

"A mile!" Her heart sinks. She could barely take one step. "What do I do? Hop all that way back?"

"I guess we'll just have to leave you for the bears' breakfast."

…this is turning out a lot like she envisioned earlier.

"Addison." He's shaking his head. "Just … hold on a second."

He points a firm finger at Doc. "Sit. Good boy. Now _stay_ like your life depends on it, you got it?"

Doc barks with what Addison hopes is agreement, and Derek releases the leash.

He steps toward her, taking her weight flush against him and insinuating his right leg between hers.

"Derek … what are you doing?"

He takes her left hand in his right, studying her for a moment, then bends down and wraps his arm around her thighs.

"Derek?" She's not actually opposed to forest-based foreplay but she'd prefer it under slightly different circumstances. Like the kind where her ankle isn't throbbing.

When he stands back up she feels her feet leave the ground and the next thing she knows, she's staring at the dirt path, still holding her flashlight, strands of hair that have come loose from her bun falling in her face.

He's gripping her wrist in one hand and her thigh with his other hand, all of her weight supported on his shoulders.

"Derek … you are _not_ actually considering carrying me all the way back to the trailer." Her voice sounds a little strange coming from upside-down.

"I'm more than considering it, Addison. I'm doing it."

Okay, he has a point, since he's started to move – not that she can see him, but his shoulders are flexing under her body.

"Doc!" He calls the dog, who bounds over happily. Derek bends carefully.

"Now what are you doing?" Addison asks nervously, feeling herself lowering in space.

"Grab hold of the leash."

"What?"

"Addie, reach out and take Doc's leash."

She aims the flashlight a bit shakily, her new position making her realize how much her ankle is throbbing, and lets her fingers sweep along until they meet fur – and then the canvas of the leash.

"Got it!"

"Good. Can you hang on to it while we walk?"

"Yes."

"Okay, put it in your other hand."

"Why?"

"Would you just do it?"

"Fine." She switches hands so that she's holding Doc's leash behind Derek's back.

"Now move the flashlight to your front hand," he directs her.

She does. Ah, that's better. "You have it all figured out, huh?"

He's walking again, and with the flashlight illuminating the trail she can see their path. He's moving faster than she would have expected, picking carefully along the uneven dirt trail.

"Not my first time."

"Oh, you've broken other girls' ankles in the woods?"

"No, you're my first at that specific scenario. But I was an Eagle Scout, remember?"

She remembers the photograph and medal Carolyn Shepherd displayed proudly in the family home. "Yeah, but I thought that was just to get into college."

"Maybe there are some things you don't know about me, too," he responds.

"Maybe." She feels a little woozy with the blood rushing to her head and he seems to hear it in her voice.

"Addison … you with me?"

"I'm with you. I'm _on_ you," she says, suddenly finding it funny, and then winces when her injured ankle is jarred, realizing the blood is rushing to her feet too.

"We'll elevate your ankle when we get home," Derek says grimly, apparently feeling her flinch – which makes sense since in her current fireman's carry position, pretty much every inch of her body is somewhere on his.

"You hanging in there?"

"I should be asking you that," she says. "I'm too heavy for you."

"No, you're not."

"Well, I don't want you to hurt yourself."

"Me neither," he responds lightly. "Or Doc's going to have to carry us both home, and I'm not sure he knows us well enough for that yet."

He pats the denim-clad leg hanging in front of him, grips her firmly once again, and they keep walking, making steady progress back down the trail.

…

"I can't believe you carried me all that way," she marvels as he stands on the trailer's tiny porch, still holding her and fumbling in his pocket for the keys.

Carrying her _into_ the trailer is challenging, height-wise, but they manage. They make it all the way to the bed, where he sets her down carefully and starts unlacing her shoes.

"Ow." She's leaning back on her elbows. "Be gentle."

"Oh, okay. I was going to be rough, but now that you've warned me I guess I can change it up."

"Shut up." She makes a face at him. "How does it look?"

"Give me a second to find out."

"Ouch!"

"Sorry." He pauses for a minute before his fingers skim over her bare ankle again, manipulating carefully. "Moderate swelling, mild tenderness. Not broken, hopefully not sprained, just – twisted."

" _Just_ twisted."

He stands up and uses a combination of folded towels and pillows to make a bolster for her foot. "There you go. Nice and elevated."

"Thanks."

He walks the inch or so to the kitchen next and then returns to her side with an ice bag wrapped in a clean dishtowel, and sets it on her ankle.

"That's cold!"

"It's supposed to be cold. Ice doesn't do much good when it's warm."

She flops back against the pillows. "I can't believe I twisted my ankle."

"The swelling will probably be down by the morning – but you still might have to lay off the six-inch heels for a while."

"They are not _six_ inches, Derek, I'm not a stripper!"

He raises an eyebrow.

"That was _one_ time, and I was very drunk, and I still think you and Mark rigged that bet."

"My point is … you're going to work in sneakers tomorrow," he says.

Abject horror must register on her face because he laughs at her.

"It's not funny," she scowls.

"It's a little funny."

"Derek!"

"What are you going to do if you can't tower over everyone in the hospital?"

"I can still tower over some of them," she reminds him.

"Mm." He tilts his head. "No wonder you get along so well with Miranda Bailey."

She points her finger at him. "I'm going to tell her you said that."

"I think she knows she's not joining the WNBA anytime soon," he responds easily.

"Actually, if she really wanted to join the WNBA, I feel like she could do it." Addison smiles, thinking of Bailey. "She's pretty determined when she wants to achieve something, even if it seems impossible."

"Maybe that's why the two of you get along so well." He sits down on the side of the bed next to her.

"Hm?"

"What you just said … you could be describing yourself."

"I could … oh," she says quietly. "Thank you."

"Who said it was a compliment?"

"Derek!"

"Fine, it was." He rests a hand on her leg. "How's the ankle? Is the _cold_ ice helping?"

"It's helping. It's better. Good enough for heels tomorrow, I think."

"Yeah?" He stands up and points a finger. "Not those heels, I hope."

She looks over to where he's pointing.

"Doc!" She sits up a little when she sees what's hanging out of their new dog's mouth: one of her shoes. More specifically, one of her black leather pointy-toed pumps with the absolutely adorable crossover ankle strap, the ones she wore to work that day. She remembers putting away the left shoe when she changed into casual clothes … and now she remembers that she couldn't find the right one. It's amazing how things can get lost in a two-foot-square trailer.

"They're twelve hundred dollars," she complains.

"Then that one's only six hundred."

"Let's see how funny you think it is when he eats your things," she says darkly. "Doc … why don't you chew on one of Daddy's fishing rods instead?"

 _Daddy._

The word pops out quickly, automatically, before she can censor herself, and then she feels a flush rising in her cheeks, half of her hoping Derek missed it.

"Daddy, huh?" He raises an eyebrow at her.

So he didn't miss it.

She covers her face with her hands. "I spent the whole day with babies," she says from behind her palms. "It slipped out."

"I liked it."

She takes her hands away from her face. "What did you say?"

"I said I liked the way it sounded, actually."

"Doc has to call us something," she says tentatively.

"Are you going to teach him to speak? I know you're a good teacher, but that might be pushing it."

"True."

Both of them are quiet for a minute, just looking at each other.

 _I like the way it sounded._ Something flutters in her stomach when she thinks about the word they've never had occasion to use. Derek's eyes are unexpectedly soft.

And just like that, now's the time she could use some forest-based foreplay.

"Derek…"

"How much does your ankle hurt?" His matter-of-fact question suggests he read the intent in the way she spoke his name; he's always been good at that.

"I don't know." She reaches out for him; he settles carefully alongside her on the bed, one warm palm resting on her ribcage. "I'm not feeling any pain right now," she whispers.

"Good."

Thank goodness for the manual dexterity they've developed after years of performing surgery; undressing around a swollen, elevated, ice-covered ankle is far from easy. And thank goodness for determination, because they manage to pull it off.

And it's worth it, because his bare skin feels heavenly against hers. He's kissing her neck while she traces the muscles of his back, loving the feeling and wondering which muscles were responsible for carrying her home. His lips hit a sensitive spot and she shifts appreciatively underneath him.

He pauses, his head tilted as if he's looking at something beyond her.

"Addison…"

"Hm?"

"You never had a dog as an adult, right?"

"Right," she says, confused. "Why?"

"No reason." He pulls her close again, which means at least that her shriek when Doc's wet nose intercedes almost blows out his eardrum.

"You knew he was going to do that!" Addison pushes at his bare shoulders, laughing and horrified all at once. "Derek!"

"He's a dog."

"I know he's a dog. Bad dog," she adds firmly to Doc, who lowers his head to his paws and whimpers, immediately making her feel guilty. She folds her arms over her breasts, suddenly self-conscious.

"Don't do that, you're going to give him a complex."

"About sex? Derek, he's already neutered."

"All the more reason not to give him a complex."

He settles down next to her again, pulling her close and insinuating a thigh between hers, careful of her ankle, and she's enjoying the feeling of his weight on top of her, the buildup of pressure, when –

"Derek!"

"Now what?"

"He's … _watching_ us."

Derek follows her gaze. Doc is sitting up now, head cocked, eyes focused on the bed.

"I don't know what to tell you, Addison. You want me to make him to go get a cup of coffee while we … "

She shoves at him, laughing again. "Just – figure something out."

"You want me to reason with a dog. Doc," he calls out and the dog's ears prick up. "Stop watching us," he says and Doc barks cheerfully, then goes right back to staring.

"That wasn't what I had in mind, Derek."

"Okay … you want me to put him outside?"

"No," she says immediately. "I don't want to tie him up and I don't want him wandering off."

"Well, do you want to stop?" He gestures at the bed and she shakes her head vigorously.

"Definitely not. Can't we just – distract him with something?"

"Okay. With what?"

She considers it for a minute. "I have an idea." She starts to get up and Derek pushes her back down.

"You're supposed to be resting and elevating."

"We weren't resting before …"

"Fine, at least elevating, then. Just tell me your idea and I'll do it."

She pulls him down and whispers in his ear, and he laughs.

"You're serious?"

"I'm serious."

Derek swings his legs out of bed and pads across the floor, rummaging in the overhead cabinets across the trailer and she watches him, enjoying the view.

When he returns to her side, she pulls him down, eager to feel his body against hers. She stops only briefly to check the other side of the trailer where Doc is stretched out chewing happily on ... her _other_ black leather pointy-toed pump with the absolutely adorable crossover ankle strap.

But at least he's not watching anymore.

"So." Derek smiles down at her. "Where were we?"

"Let me see if I can remind you," she purrs, and then she does.

* * *

 _Aww. Even my cold, angsty heart likes some Fluffy Fridays now and then. Plus, Addison's cuteness with Doc really needed to be captured. And there's nothing to bring two people together like caring for an animal. Thank you to those of you who asked me to write this one - I can't remember who it was, but if you identify yourself in a review I'll add credit! Like this flip? Have ideas for more? Both? **Review** and make me smile like Addison when she meets Doc! Thank you x 100._


	16. Cute Little Viewfinders

**A/N:** Barely under the wire for Fluffy Friday. But you deserve it after I've tortured you with the push and pull and angst of _Some Bright Morning._ This prompt came from **Luvaddek,** it's a great prompt and I hope she likes it ... even if I can't imagine she had so much fluff in mind. This was going to be a thousand words, max, and then it just kinda exploded.

So here's a balm for your Addek angst (I hope). Familiar lines at the beginning come from the episode in question. Be warned: it's long, sentimental, and not too polished.

Orientation: "Something to Talk About" is the first episode after Derek chooses Addison. It's a veritable Addek feast, the source of our collective obsession with the Empire State Building and a thousand references to Derek as a _flannel-wearing, wood-chopping fisherman._ Luvaddek suggested that Addison's plaintive line on the roof, "Is there anything you like about me anymore?" could have been the basis for a flipped script. That scene faded out on an impasse. Let's revisit.

* * *

 **Cute Little Viewfinders**  
 _(2.07, "Something to Talk About")_

* * *

"Okay, is there anything you like about me anymore? Because if there is I really need to know … now."

Derek blinks into the wind, hands shoved into the pockets of his windbreaker. "Well, I like that you like cute little viewfinders in every city you live in."

Of course. No one deflects direct questions like Derek, especially when he doesn't want to face the answer.

"I don't live here yet," she points out, instead of calling him on it.

For a moment they're both silent.

"Are you going to stop talking to Meredith?"

"I will."

"When?" He doesn't respond, and her frustration increases. "Today, tomorrow, next week?" She hears her tone rising.

"Maybe I'm not ready yet."

Of all the…

"Are you ever going to be ready, Derek?"

"What if I say no?"

"Then I'm not moving here." She gestures for emphasis, exasperated. Does he want her to move here? Last night, when he told her … should she have pushed it? If she picks up her practice and moves here, and he stays infatuated with Meredith, she'll have nothing. She'll be all alone in a strange city with persistent hair-ruining humidity and no decent restaurants.

She looks at Derek, waiting for him to tell her he wants her to stay in Seattle. That he wants her.

A long shot, but maybe …

"Well," he says simply, "I guess we're at an impasse, then."

With that, they just look at each other across the rooftop for long moments, damp wind tousling his curls and lifting the ends of her long hair.

"So, uh, are you … hungry?" The question sounds as awkward as she feels.

Which is ridiculous, because it's Derek, she's known him since she was twenty-two years old and they've nursed each other through near-deadly hangovers, food poisoning, and worse – yet somehow _this_ feels almost too awkward to bear.

To make matters worse, she throws in a clumsy gesture toward the paper sack resting on the bench.

He follows her gaze to the brown bag and she sends up a silent prayer that this won't get any worse. "I could eat," he says finally.

"Peanut butter and jelly."

"My specialty," she says. "Remember…"

"You made these?"

"Well, no. But I asked the café to make them specially. Apparently they're not a popular lunch item in Seattle."

He raises an eyebrow. "Another complaint?"

"No, Derek, I was just …" Her voice trails off. "Never mind."

Peanut butter was one of the few items they always had around as med students: it was cheap, didn't go bad, and could refuel a hungry twenty-something into another few hours of exhausted studying. It was a big deal when they upgraded to putting it on bread instead of swirling it out of the jar straight on their fingers, or – on more than one memorable occasion – each other's fingers.

And then they upgraded even further – jelly.

They're long past medical school now. She's redone the kitchen twice since they moved into the brownstone – switching from German to Japanese and back to German appliances, but one thing that's never changed is the jar of peanut butter sitting on the cararra marble counters, and the jar of jam on one shelf of the increasingly space-age stainless steel refrigerator. They had something made of stone that was supposed to keep bread fresh longer, but the housekeeper swapped out a steady stream of new loaves anyway.

As a result, the one thing she could consistently make was peanut butter and jelly. She didn't just make PB&J – she enjoyed making it. Unlike Derek, Addison didn't spend a childhood with brown-bagged lunches lovingly packed and sent off to school with her, and even if Carolyn Shepherd favored hideous things like bologna that Addison would never touch, and white bread devoid of any nutrients, the tenderness behind the hand-packed lunch still touched her. However you spin it, brown bags were what people carried to school or work when someone at home cared about them.

The symbolism was painfully obvious but he never called her out or teased her about it. They made it a _thing_ , the two of them, sharing a brown bag of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in the most creative spots they could find – beautiful places, or interesting ones, unusual ones, or just plain enjoyable ones.

On top of the Empire State Building on a crisp fall day, Derek waited until she had a mouthful of peanut butter and jelly before he sank down on one denim-clad knee and asked her to spend the rest of her life brown-bagging it with him anywhere and everywhere. She coughed, chugged half a bottle of water, and cried.

And said yes. Of course she said yes. She actually said _yes, oh, yes,_ and when she kissed him people standing around the observatory burst into applause. _Isn't that lovely,_ she heard middle aged women say to each other. _What a beautiful couple._

He held her in his arms 85 stories above the city they both loved as the wind whipped through his curls and tossed the messy ponytail she'd scraped together in the interns' locker room with no idea that today would be anything other than ordinary. No idea that today would change her life.

 _Yes, oh, yes._

"You used to like when I made peanut butter and jelly," she says softly now. "You used to like a lot of things about me," she adds tentatively, resting her arm on the viewfinder again. She likes how solid it feels underneath her. So many times since she arrived in Seattle she's had the sensation that's she's slipping away. It's nice to feel like something is helping to hold her up.

"Yeah." Derek is looking down at the ground. "I used to do a lot of things."

"But now you're someone new…"

"Don't start that again." He shakes his head. "You may not take it seriously, Addison but I'm not the same person I was in Manhattan. And I don't want to be."

Is she the same? Here, in Seattle, as she was in Manhattan?

"I get it," she mumbles. She doesn't ask if this new Derek might like her – might _want_ her, because she can't imagine he'll answer it any differently than the Derek of twenty minutes ago.

He's resting one arm on the railing, his bare left hand holding half a sandwich. She watches him take a bite.

"How is it?"

"It's peanut butter and jelly," he says. There's no malice in his tone, but she can't hear any affection either.

"Yeah, well. I guess that's the same in Seattle as it is in Manhattan, anyway …" Her voice trails off.

She pulls at the corner of one of the halves of her sandwich, nibbling at the crust. Her stomach feels full – with anxiety, not food, but even though she's a doctor she'd still swear that the both those things take up the exact same space in the human body. She's never been able to eat mu much when she's nervous.

Finally, she just wraps the rest of the sandwich back in wax paper and stuffs it into the bag, successfully holding tears at bay. This is no place to cry, three thousand miles from home. So she forces her lips to still their trembling, weaves lightness and sarcasm into her tone instead of pain, and hides it.

So she _is_ still the same Addison, here in Seattle.

When the flannel-wearing, wood-chopping fisherman's pager goes off, it's almost a relief.

"Sorry," he says briefly on his way past her, nodding slightly with his chin in lieu of a kiss, and she smiles tightly because she knows he's not.

…

Her afternoon is exhausting.

First of all, she's hungry, because two bites of a peanut butter and jelly don't last long. When she asks one of the smarmy little interns to bring her a coffee, he has the nerve to smirk. He does it, of course, but then she's struck with paranoia that he's spit in it so she throws it out untouched.

In retrospect, as her legs tremble with exhaustion three hours into a delicate surgery, she should have drunk the coffee.

When she gets back to the temporary office Richard arranged for her, she's so tired she thinks she might just lay her head on the smooth dark surface and sleep right here. It's not like there's anyone waiting for her in her hotel room. She could sleep here and no one would know she was gone; the inn would just keep charging her credit card. She could disappear and no one would notice.

She presses her fingers into her temples. She's being stupid. She got herself into this mess. Addison Shepherd doesn't mope about loneliness after successfully curing a fetal heart defect. Addison Shepherd is damned good at what she does. Addison Shepherd doesn't cry.

She doesn't.

She's _not,_ she's just sniffling a little bit. She reaches for the box of tissues on the desk and her hand makes contact with stiff paper.

Confused, she pulls out whatever is stuck into the box.

It's a page from a prescription pad. Not just any prescription pad. The prescription pad of _Derek C. Shepherd, M.D._ , and there's just one word scrawled in the middle of the page, in his familiar handwriting:

 ** _Tenacity_**

That's all it says. She studies the paper, so surprised that her tears recede on their own.

Tenacity? What does that mean? Is he … giving her a prescription for tenacity?

That doesn't make any sense. Briefly, she considers whether _Tenacity_ is a new high-tech neuro-related drug she hasn't heard of yet.

…but that doesn't explain what it's doing in her very non-high-tech blue-and-green hospital-issue Kleenex box.

Puzzled, she turns slightly on the wheeled chair, only to see another page from the same pad propped up against her desk lamp, also bearing just one word written in the middle of the page:

 ** _Compassion_**

She fingers the stiff paper. These notes – if that's what they are – weren't here this morning when she finished some charting before heading out to procure lunch. She hasn't been back to her office since then; she's been on her feet all afternoon. Does that mean that he –

A little corner is sticking out from under her telephone. She tugs it free, not even surprised this time when it's a page from Derek's prescription pad with a single handwritten word:

 ** _Wit_**

She feels a tingling sensation starting in her cheeks. Can it …

Quickly, she pulls open the desk drawer, almost daring herself to be wrong, but she just finds two more:

 ** _Brilliance_**

 ** _Kindness_**

They're both in his handwriting.

Together, they make up five nouns. When everything clicks into place, she has to reach for the Kleenex box again for a very different kind of tears.

 _Is there anything that you like about me anymore? Because if there is, I really need to know … now._

He didn't tell her when they stood together on the roof. He was silent. And then he filled her office with the things he likes about her. It's the kind of thing he might have done as a med student or in the early days of their marriage, when he was such an incurable romantic it took her breath away.

It's hard to connect the last two years of missed dinners, quick phone calls to say he'd be working late, half-empty beds and forgotten plans with the same man who once strung up Christmas lights along their entire dorm hallway to cheer her up when she got a 92 on a quiz.

In April.

But he knew she loved Christmas.

The same man who remembered her offhand comments about things she liked – red wine, black coffee, the smell of the ocean, and peppered them in the things he did with her and for her; and he remembered the things she didn't like – caramel, statistics, and loneliness, and kept them away from her.

If she knows Derek, five notes is nothing. Five notes is a start. So she keeps looking. There's one sticking out of each of the low heeled shoes she keeps under her desk; she pulls out the paper from the left shoe first, which says

 _ **Legs**. _

The one she removes from the right shoe just says

 _ **Etc**._

She laughs a little through her tears and stands up to see a note tucked into the Matisse print hanging on one wall, where her diplomas would go if she worked here permanently.

 ** _Fun_**

They did have fun. Oh god, did they have fun. When they were young, when they were happy, and even when they were less young and less happy.

She turns to the bookshelves and starts with the top.

 ** _Thoughtfulness_**

Working her way down, from

 ** _Talent_**

All the way to

 ** _Giddiness_ ***

Curious, she follows the unexpected asterisk to the other side of the page, where it says ***** _ **non alcohol-induced**. _ She smiles, brushing away more tears.

The next one is also

 ** _Giddiness_ ***

… but this asterisk says *** _alcohol-induced._**

Now she actually laughs. Just in time for the next one:

 ** _Laughter_**

He used to say he loved the way she laughed, and she would say he was the only one who thought that. She'd been teased as a teenager for her uninhibited guffaw. _Really?_ He'd seemed shocked by that. _Maybe I have a special laugh for you,_ she'd suggested. _Or maybe I just have really good hearing,_ he proposed, and he tickled her until the laugh he loved rang through the room.

Tucked into the back of her ergonomic chair:

 ** _Rambling_**

When she's finished pawing through the office she has a sheaf of papers in her hand and tearstains on the collar of her blouse.

She doesn't know why she heads straight to the catwalk – Derek could be anywhere: in his office, in an exam room, operating … but she remembers the places Manhattan Derek would go to think, to brood, to mull, and she takes a chance that Seattle Derek hasn't changed _that_ much.

He's facing away from her, staring out at the darkened skyline, wearing his coat with his bag slung over his shoulder like he was considering leaving … but stayed anyway.

She doesn't say anything as she approaches, but the persistent clack of her heels gives her away. He turns around, not saying anything, but she can tell by the expression on his face that he knows that _she_ knows.

Her lips part to tell him how much it means to her, what he did, to tell him that she knows they have a lot to talk about and a lot of work to do but she's never felt more committed to do it, to thank him for giving her a chance.

"I can't believe you wasted a whole prescription pad."

… or she could say that.

 _ **Unpredictability** , _one of the notes read.

The corners of Derek's mouth twitch, almost as if he knew what she wanted to say.

"A whole prescription pad? Please," he scoffs. "It wasn't even half."

"Oh, well in that case … it was totally normal. Not at all crazy." She can't help laughing a little.

 _ **Humor** , _one of the notes read.

"I couldn't agree more," he says mildly.

"Thank you," she whispers, because she's afraid her voice will crack if she raises it, "…for letting me know."

He just looks at her for a moment. "You're welcome," he says finally.

When she returns his gaze she sees that his eyes are bright – just a little bit, but enough that she notices. She shifts in her heels, calves aching just a bit after her long day. His eyes flicker down her legs; he used to like to massage away the tension from her favorite footwear.

 _ **Shoes** *, _one of the notes read. The asterisk led to the addition *** _even the ridiculous ones._**

When she looks at his face it's open. Honest. And she knows she owes him as much.

"I should tell you something." She bites her lip softly. "Um … Richard offered me a contract. Kind of a big one."

He frowns. " _Kind of_ how big?"

"Big." She smiles nervously.

He nods, taking it in. "I should tell you something, too. Bailey pointed out that I was making it worse for Meredith by talking to her, and told me to leave her alone."

"Oh." She pauses. "So you're going to stop talking to Meredith?"

"I'm not sure I have a choice, but … yes." He pauses. "Are you going to accept Richard's offer?"

"I'm not sure I have a choice either," she admits, "but …yes."

He rests a hand on the railing. "The contract is that good, huh?"

"Well, yes … and also I'm not sure Chief Leonard wants me back."

Derek's brow furrows. "You're a department head, Addie. Why wouldn't he want you back?"

She lifts an eyebrow.

"He must have been upset to lose you, after –" he breaks off. "Ah. Right."

"Yeah." She studies her hands. "He had to scramble. And he already wasn't thrilled with me when you left the faculty."

"He knows what…"

"He knows." Addison sighs. "Everyone seems to know. And he blames me."

Derek doesn't say anything.

"I know it's my fault." She fiddles absently with the wheel of her blackberry, hand in the pocket of her coat. "For what it's worth, Leonard's not exactly thrilled with you either – he said you should have given him notice."

"I didn't exactly get much notice myself," Derek points out mildly.

"I know. But all in all … I guess you could say Manhattan isn't rolling out the red carpet for either Shepherd."

"Maybe Seattle is."

She winces slightly. "But it's so damp here."

"Humidity is good for your skin."

She told him as much once, after bemoaning her dry cheeks and chapped lips during a conference in Albuquerque. "You remember that?"

"You haven't let me forget."

"Oh. Well, it's also not good for my –"

"-hair? I disagree. I've always liked your hair curly."

She makes a face. "It looks messy that way."

"It looks natural that way."

"When men say _natural_ what they really mean is 'spend an hour doing the most subtle and excruciatingly precise things to yourself with total finesse to pretend you look natural.'"

"Maybe." Derek raises an eyebrow. "But I think I've seen you … _actually_ natural a time or two. Maybe more than that."

"Maybe." She pauses. "So … you're not actually choosing to stop talking to Meredith. Not completely."

"And you're not actually staying in Seattle for me. Not completely."

"But you're not going to talk to her anymore."

He nods. "And you're going to stay in Seattle."

She nods this time.

They hold each other's eyes for a moment, and then Derek speaks first.

"Think we should tell Saltzmann about our progress?"

"No way. He'll try to take credit."

"Good point," Derek says.

"So … what happens next?" She looks at him uncertainly. "Are we still at an impasse?"

He seems to be considering her question. "No. Not if we move on."

"Move on … ?"

"Isn't that what you said to me when you first got here? _Move on with the rest of our lives like adults_?"

She remembers that – remembers standing over him as he sat in the rocker in the NICU, remembers the soft look in his pale eyes and the way he smiled gently at her from across the room. The same smile – slight but almost painfully tender – that's been slaying her for years. She took in the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, the way the corners of him mouth turned up, and she felt in that moment that no matter what happened between them, no matter what _would_ happen, everything would be all right as long as he could still look at her that way. As long as he could still make her feel so – seen. Wanted. _Loved._

And it was ridiculous then, and maybe now, because he could barely stay in the same room as her and looked at her with utter loathing half the time, called her names and told everyone he could what she'd done.

But that one look and she was putty, and she stared down into his familiar face, and offered herself back to him. _The way I see it, we could deal with … us … in one of three ways._

In the end, she only gave him two.

And they both started out the same way.

 _I could apologize, you could forgive me…_

She's apologized. He hasn't forgiven her.

She's living in a hotel and he's living in a trailer; she's moving to Seattle for a lucrative contract and he's given up his girlfriend through no choice of his own.

And she's Addison and he's Derek and maybe they're going to _move on._

He's still looking at her, waiting for her answer.

"I did say that," she admits. "So, move on … where?"

"Pizza," he says, sounding decisive.

"Pizza," she repeats dubiously. "We move on to … pizza?"

He shrugs. "I'm hungry. Aren't you? You barely ate two bites of your sandwich on the roof."

She folded the rest back up, the knot in her stomach too tight to eat, and hadn't realized he'd noticed.

"I'm hungry," she admits.

"Well, then…?"

He offers her his arm. Hesitantly, she tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow.

And they move on – off the catwalk, down the hall, into the elevator, and out the sliding doors into the damp and drizzly night … together.

* * *

 _So. much. fluff. Happy Friday and have a wonderful weekend, everyone. Read it? Liked it? Ideas for more flips? I love reviews like Derek and Addison love brown bags. So please review and tell me!_


	17. No Reason

**A/N:** It's been forever since I've flipped a script, but I had a ton of work to do this weekend so naturally I wrote this piece. Oops. This is ridiculously long, but then, you sure don't expect brevity from me at this point. This was a suggestion from several readers - definitely **emk8** , but I can't remember the others (remind me if you were one of them!). I've been somewhat resistant to third season flips, but I'm over that hump now and here we are.

So, episode 7 of season 3, when Derek and all the popular boys went camping and Addison and Callie handled the world's saddest case and then Addison broke down in the ladies' room and Callie won all of our hearts when she threatened to climb over the stall door. "I'll do it, but I'll be really pissed, 'cause I don't know you that well." At the end of the episode a totally drained Addison asks Callie to get a drink, she says yes, and then ... her pager goes off. Poor Addison. Season 3 Addison was just in a pit of despair and it was really, really hard to watch. Derek, of course, treated her like garbage, managing to be dismissive _and_ cruel (overachiever!).

...and many of you asked me to flip the script of this episode (add on to the end, or really it's between this episode and the next, but you get the drift) so that Derek has some interaction with Addison about how hard the Jamie Carr case was for her. I may have screwed with the timeline a bit. Forgive me? I sure hope so. Forgive this long author's note? I sure hope so again. I mean, #FTS tradition.

Oh, and this flip is dedicated to **LS** who finished medical school holy CRAP that is amazing and impressive especially since you also found the time to read and review the long, long works of Addek trash like me. You are a heroine to us all!

* * *

 **No Reason  
** ( _Episode 3.07, "Where the Boys Are")_

* * *

"Have you seen Addison?"

Derek turns around to see Callie Torres giving him a rather unimpressed look, one of her hands propped on her hip.

"Have I seen Addison?"

"Yeah, is there an echo in here?"

"No, there's not an echo in here." Derek places the pen he was holding neatly on top of the chart he was attempting to review. Maybe he should have stayed in the woods. "Dr. Torres … can I help you with something?"

"You can answer my question."

"Okay." He nods, deciding to play along. "You're asking me if I've seen Addison."

"Yes."

"If I've seen my ex-wife."

"Right again."

"No. I haven't."

She makes a noise that sound suspiciously like a snort.

"Dr. Torres … have I done something to offend you?"

"Ooh, let's see … a bunch of things, to be honest, but I don't think you really want to go there, do you?"

He doesn't. He remembers her accusing dark eyes when she walked into the exam room, the way she looked at him while she was tying the sash of Meredith's dress.

"No," he says honestly. "I just want to chart."

"No one wants to chart."

"They might if this was their alternative."

She almost smiles, which surprises him. "I'm not trying to ruin your day, Shepherd. I'm trying to find Addison."

"Well, I haven't seen her."

"Is something wrong?"

"With what?"

"With Addison."

Torres pauses, tilting her head. "I don't know how to answer that."

"It seems pretty straightforward, Dr. Torres. You're looking for Addison, I asked you if something's wrong … "

"So you mean if something's wrong other than the total garbage fire her life has become?"

He raises his eyebrows. "That's … colorful."

"You really are oblivious, aren't you?"

"Excuse me?"

He's losing patience, and she seems to be able to tell. Her disdain for him doesn't go anywhere, but he can see she's remembering he outranks her.

"If you see Addison, just tell her I'm looking for her, okay?"

"I'm not going to see Addison," he says to Torres's retreating back.

…

"Am I oblivious?"

"To what?"

"See, that is a normal answer." He glances at Meredith, who is frowning at something on the nurses' desk while he leans against the wall next to her.

"I don't think Dr. Torres likes me," he adds, knowing it's a non-sequitur and not really caring.

"I didn't think she liked me either, but she kind of grew on me. Or I grew on her." Meredith pauses. "Anyway, there's … growth or whatever. Why did you bring her up?"

"I guess she's friends with Addison."

"Oh." Meredith considers this. "That's good."

"It is?"

"Isn't it?"

"I don't know. I guess she's a better choice than Mark."

"Derek … why do you care if Addison and Callie are friends?"

"I don't," he assures her.

"Okay, then." Meredith looks confused. "I need to go check on one of Sloan's patients, actually, so-"

"You're working with Sloan?"

"I'm working with Sloan."

"I wish you wouldn't work with him," he mutters as she gathers her things.

"And I wish you wouldn't expect me to tailor my education around your grudges."

"Meredith – "

"I'm sorry," she says, "I was on call last night and I'm tired, but Derek, I'm not going to sacrifice fetal surgery _and_ plastics so you can feel better."

"You can work with Addison," he says weakly.

"Can I? Gosh, thanks."

Her sarcasm cuts him. Can't she see he's hurting?

Apparently not, because she just stares at him a moment before shaking her head. "Okay, so … I'm going to check on my patient. Maybe I'll see you later."

"Maybe," he echoes as she walks away.

 _Oblivious._

He's hardly oblivious.

Callie doesn't know him at all.

…

"Your little girlfriend's on my service today. She's very … good."

"Go away, Mark," he says without looking up.

"Hey, you know what? We still haven't really caught up. Let's get a drink tonight."

"Let's not."

"Derek. I'm living here now, I'm your colleague. When are you going to forgive me?"

"Have you even apologized?"

Mark considers this. "Sorry," he says lightly.

Derek shakes his head. "I'd rather spend the night on bowel impactions than have a drink with you," he says.

"That's cold." Mark narrows his eyes. "Are you ever going to consider your own role here? We all made mistakes."

Derek glances around to make sure they have a wide berth. "My mistake with _you_ was assuming you weren't going to screw my wife."

"No, your mistake was being fucking oblivious to everything around you."

That word again!

"I'm not oblivious," he protests.

Mark looks doubtful.

"I notice things," Derek says firmly.

"Yeah? In the OR, sure. Outside of it … I could be dancing naked in front of you right now and you would have no idea."

Derek closes his eyes at the unpleasant image. "I've already seen enough of you naked, thanks."

"That's not usually the reaction I get." Mark grins. "But okay."

"Goodbye, Mark."

"So was that a no to the drink?"

Derek ignores him and walks away.

…

He's dawdling, for some reason. He could leave; he's technically been off since seven.

He finds himself filling more time with housekeeping tasks instead.

In the supply closet where he goes in search of a fresh box of foley caths, he flicks the switch and nothing happens.

Odd.

Maybe the light is out.

Or maybe someone's turned off the bulb from the other side of the room, a habit of which he's had to break a few interns over the years.

He starts picking his way across the room – _very_ carefully – and then the door swings shut behind him and he's plunged into total darkness.

Not _total_ because after blinking a few times the room's shadows start to reemerge. And that's when he notices a strange-shaped lump in the far corner.

The lump's shape is oddly familiar.

"Addison?"

She doesn't say anything – or the lump he assumes is Addison doesn't say anything.

He must have imagined it.

Still …

He brushes his meandering thoughts aside and continues to inch his way slowly and delicately across the closet floor. When the hanging pull chain is finally in reach, he grasps it and then e hears a very small voice.

"Don't turn on the light."

He blinks, too surprised to pull the chain, and they remain in mostly-darkness.

"Addison," he repeats her name, and she neither confirms nor denies her presence.

Silence.

"It's … dark in here," he says, realizing how stupid it sounds once the words are released.

"Fine, turn on the light." Her voice sounds thick and congested.

Confused, he reaches for the chain and pulls. It's an old-fashioned bulb, not a fluorescent, and the light is produces is yellow and sticky. Low.

He blinks a few times before he can make her out, sitting small and hunched on an overturned bucket, squinting.

"…hi," he says for lack of anything better, feeling like an idiot.

"Hi," she says back, her tone recognizably sarcastic.

So whatever's wrong with her hasn't changed the fact that she hates him.

Or, he can reluctantly admit, the fact that she might have reason.

"Are you … okay?"

She stares at him, her eyes starting to uncrinkle as she gets used to the meager light from the bulb.

He stares back.

She's wrapped in her lab coat; underneath he can see a typically Addison ensemble, some kind of printed dress and ridiculously high heels, and she's somehow managing to perch in an almost _elegant_ way on a beat-up mop bucket. Her legs are crossed – of course they're crossed, she told him years ago about her mother's habit of whacking her legs with her handbag if they weren't crossed.

And Bizzy's handbags were no joke.

Addison told the story like it was amusing, or at least neutral, and Derek was struck by how easily something outrageous becomes believable if you tell it enough. Even … normal.

Maybe that's what he's been doing. Telling himself he hasn't done anything wrong. Telling himself he's the injured party here.

 _All I want is Seattle. I want Seattle, and I want never to see you again._

Telling himself he didn't do anything wrong. Not to either of them.

 _Meredith … what does this mean?_

He leans against the metal shelving for a moment. This isn't exactly an elegant environment for an epiphany. So he pushes it back down.

And focuses on Addison.

Mascara tracks its way down her flushed cheeks, and he notices that her nose looks faintly swollen. That only happens when she's been crying for a while, he knows. Not a few delicate tears – not the ones he came to view as manipulative – but full on crying.

The kind she avoided like the plague.

Such a funny expression. The plague was pretty damned hard to avoid, judging by the body count.

And Addison's strict avoidance of crying, in his experience … just ended up with more tears.

He hasn't been the one observing them, though. Not for a while.

She doesn't speak. Neither does he, he just keeps observing.

Some of her hair has come down from its clip – he assumes she was holding the sides of her head; he's seen her do that too. There's a chart propped up against the shelving near her. He wonders if some interaction with a patient drove her here, to cry. She's not straight out of the OR; she's dressed for a consult, not a surgery.

"What are you doing here?" she asks hoarsely, not answering his question.

"It's a supply closet. I wanted supplies." He intended his tone to be light but he hears it coming out irritated and he's annoyed with his lack of control.

"Okay. Can you just – get them and go, please?"

He rests a hand on the metal shelving next to him. It feels oddly slick under his fingers, unpleasant. It's difficult to make out the box labels in the dim light.

"Can I turn on the overheads first?"

"No," she says immediately.

"I need to be able to read the boxes, Addison, or I'm going to take the wrong-"

"Just go to another supply closet."

"I'm already in this one. Can I just turn on the –"

"No! Just go. Away."

"Addison … you're being ridiculous."

" _You_ are," she says sharply. "There are half a dozen supply closets on this floor, you don't need to be here."

"This is the closest one," he says.

There's a noise from her that sounds almost like a growl. A groan of frustration, maybe.

"God, Derek, do you need to take this too? Can I not have _one_ space I can be – where I can just – " She stops talking and drops her head into her hands again. She's hardly moving but he can tell she's crying again.

Immediately he feels guilty for baiting her. He saw how upset she was, didn't he?

But it _is_ a supply closet, and there's no reason why he shouldn't be able to turn on the light, and get his supplies.

He's inches from the panel switch on the wall. He could flick it and plunge the closet into fluorescent brightness.

He doesn't, though. He moves carefully in the low light across the cluttered floor and sits on a box he hopes can support his weight – it seems to.

If she notices his presence she doesn't acknowledge it.

"Did, uh, did something happen?"

She startles, her hands flying away from her face. "Are you really still here?"

He's not sure how to answer that.

She rolls her eyes, tears still running down her cheeks. "I know it's silly to think I could ever get any … dignity, but _why_ are you still here?"

He shrugs.

"Great." She rolls her eyes again. "That's just great." She gestures sweepingly with one arm, knocking a box of gauze from the shelf.

"You seem upset," he says and he thinks she might knock _him_ down based on her expression.

"Really, Derek? What is that, shrink-talk? Where was it when we were in marriage counseling? You know, I considered calling him to tell him how well our reconciliation went," she says, her voice heavy with resentment.

This … is not going well. He's not sure what he's done to upset her – well, coming into the supply closet, not _leaving_ the supply closet, but other than that, he's not sure.

They're divorced.

And they're civil. And mature. At least they are now, after she finally told him what she should have told him since the beginning.

He's moving on and he's happy, and she's … in a supply closet.

"Addison."

"Please just go," she says quietly, addressing her words to the floor.

His body feels heavy, attached to the box. He's not sure he _could_ leave if he wanted to. He's also not sure he wants to.

"Do you, uh, do you want to talk about it?"

She looks at him like he's crazy. Maybe he is.

"Do I seem like I want to talk about?"

"No," he admits. _That's usually when you need to talk about something,_ he adds to himself. He's not sure he ever shared that calculation with her. It's one of the many little formulae that add up to a marriage, the bits and pieces of quirks and jargon that you observe over the years until you know the other person so well they're like a cracked reflection of your own face.

"Did something happen with a patient?"

He's honestly not sure why he keeps pursuing it. Then again, he's not sure why he does much of anything these days.

She ignores the question, but he can tell by the way her shoulders tense that he's at least somewhat on the money.

She doesn't lose it like this over a patient unless there's a very good reason. He's not exactly up to date on her cases; they haven't … talked, or anything like that. It wouldn't be appropriate, or necessary. They're divorced.

Her face is muffled by her hands, and he can hardly hear her, but he can make out one word, _fell._

"Fell? Who, your patient?" He's confused.

"Yeah. My patient. And … " She removes her hands from her face and he sees even more of a mess than the last time, streaked makeup and swollen eyes. She looks miserable, and maybe even beyond caring that he's there. She doesn't continue the sentence, so he tries to prompt her.

"Your patient fell."

She's looking down at her hands again and he tries to understand.

"Did she, um, she was pregnant?" It's generally a safe assumption with Addison's patients.

"She was." She says it very quietly, part whisper and part confession, and he's still confused.

"Can you start at the beginning?"

"Where's the beginning?" She lifts both hands as if she's surrendering.

"What happened to your patient?" he asks quietly, trying to keep her on track.

"She was fine," Addison says mechanically, staring at the floor.

"Oh." He's confused. "Then why-"

"She was eight months pregnant and everything was fine and then the next thing she knew, her baby was dead." She shakes her head.

Derek swallows. Addison's cases, her fragile patients, tiny and sometimes unborn, can be utterly heartbreaking.

"She fell?" he asks tentatively, remembering what she said before.

Addison nods. "In the shower."

Derek winces.

"It was just hard. It was – it shouldn't have been that hard. For me. It was hard for Jamie, obviously."

"Your patient."

She nods. "I, uh, I couldn't tell her. I couldn't face it so I just … left her in there." She blinks. "Callie, um, she came and found me."

"Found you?"

"In the bathroom," she says, looking a bit embarrassed, and he has a flash of her younger self, sobbing in wrinkled scrubs, _my baby's dead,_ she said, after Richard's little lesson in distance.

But this is different. It _feels_ different.

"I told Callie there was no reason why this case should have affected me so much."

He nods, sympathetic.

"I lied," she says simply.

He's confused again. "Addison…?"

She takes a deep breath. "You remember the conference in Sydney, two years ago?"

He nods. It was memorable for a number of reasons, the receipt of a surprise award and the terrible jet lag upon his return chief among them.

Then she's quiet again. He studies her face, confused.

"Addison … "

"I was pregnant," she says softly.

He's not sure three words could have surprised him more.

 _Mark and I … it wasn't a one night and stand._

That started with three words. But somewhere in the back of his mind, dark and hidden and unwilling to be admitted, a part of him knew. Didn't want to admit it, because for Mark and Addison to have had a relationship meant his relationship with Meredith wasn't the superior interaction he wanted it to be. Theirs was a one-night stand, a one-night mistake, a lapse in judgment. Whereas his relationship with Meredith was a night of passion that turned into something _real._ Thinking of Mark and Addison's relationship as real … that made him feel like the elevator had missed a floor. Still. For no other reason, he's sure, than that she failed to tell him for so long.

She's watching him as thoughts race through his mind silent to her.

"You were pregnant," he repeats woodenly.

She nods. "I was, um, I was waiting to tell you. I had this whole … thing planned," she makes a face – it's rueful, a little embarrassed, but wistful too. He gets that feeling in his stomach again, like the elevator missed a floor.

"I only found out about a week before you left. It was hard to keep it secret, but … I wanted it to be special."

Her voice cracks a bit and without thinking about it he places his hand over hers on her lap. She looks up at him.

"I woke up the day before you were coming home and I was so excited to tell you."

He feels faintly nauseated; it's clear where the story is going, but he's compelled to take apart each word, to hear it separately and then synthesis.

 _I was pregnant._

And he had no idea.

"I fell," she says softly. "On the stairs, those … _fucking_ doors." She shakes her head. They were a hazard; getting hit with them was practically a rite of passage at the hospital, even though it shouldn't have been.

He's stunned. She fell – she was injured? _She was pregnant._

"No, it was – it was minor. The fall. I was just distracted and I got … shouldered … by some cardio beast. It was nothing. It … I didn't even get hurt."

He hears a slight emphasis on _I._

"But then when they checked me out there was no heartbeat." She looks right at him now, tears turning her irises green in the low light. "I could tell just from the expression in – and I kept talking, like I could talk right over the news."

He knows exactly what she means.

"I … don't even know if the fall was related," Addison continues. "Maybe she was already gone and I would have started … started bleeding that day anyway."

He's stuck on _she._ "It was a girl?" he breathes.

"I was only nine weeks," she says softly, "but … I know it was a girl."

"Addie..." He's not sure what to say. The naked pain on her face is a living thing, it fills the room and settles over him like an uncomfortable fog. His chest feels hollow. A girl.

Their girl.

 _His_ girl, his little girl he never had the opportunity to grieve. And Addison, broken and bleeding in the hospital where they both worked, tended to by colleagues, and never sharing any of it with him? Anger curls around the pain in his stomach.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me?"

"Because you were happy," she says softly. "You didn't deserve something so … unhappy. And you were so excited when you got home from the conference and I thought it would actually … you seemed like you were happy to see me, and I didn't want to ruin that with terrible news … but anyway, it didn't do anything and here we are now and … and I'm an idiot."

"You're not an idiot," he says automatically, though there's too much information for him to process all at once.

She makes a sort of shrugging gesture and cradles her head in her hands again.

"I'm sorry you went through that alone," he says. She's silent at first and he's not sure if she heard him; then she sits up a little.

"Yeah, me too. I should have told you," she admits. "I should have let you …" She doesn't finish, she wipes her hand across her eyes, and he watches helplessly as she starts to cry again.

"You could let me now," he suggests.

She shakes her head, her eyes wide and wet. She's wincing a little like he's already hurt her.

"Let me now," he presses again, quietly.

She makes the very slightest gesture – an infinitesimal movement of one finger of one hand but it's _something._ He urges her to move from the overturned bucket to the box where he's sitting – it's wide enough for two, though it's possible her slight weight will cause them both to crash through the cardboard.

When it doesn't, he takes it as a sign.

He expects her to protest, but having crossed the space between them she is apparently done fighting. She melts into him and for the first time since he's willing to remember he feels her hot tears against his neck.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly into her hair. Both his arms are around her, her weight slumped into him, and he can her hands against the back of his lab coat. Three layers between her fingers and his skin, but she still clings the same way: grasp, release. Then grasp again.

Like cat's claws, like she's not sure if she wants to hold on or let go. Grasp, release. She's still holding on, he's still absorbing her tears.

Somewhere deep inside he might have tears of his own, for the child he never knew she was carrying, the one he never knew she lost, the tears he wasn't able to shed when it happened.

For now it's just her tears, though; they leave him wet and slippery and a part of him is a little surprised that he hasn't, in all this time, forgotten how to hold her. That she can still cry with him, _to_ him. He matches her inhale for exhale like he used to, and it calms her breathing like he remembers.

She was pregnant. She was pregnant and he never knew and she kept it to herself so she wouldn't _ruin his happiness._

There's so much wrong with that, so much he knows he needs to unpack, so many mistakes he made and she made and they made together and apart.

But before that they were so young and they were so in love and his hands mold around her like they never signed anything. Anything at all.

She draws back, and he helps her, easing her away with a hand on each upper arm. Her skin is warm through her lab coat, through the fabric of her dress. Her face is very close to his, eyes green from tears, that shifting color no one could ever name.

He moves his hands from her arms to her face, gently, and uses his thumbs to wipe the mascara that's dripped down her cheeks. She laughs a little, ruefully and damply, when she sees the black stains on his thumbs, and then he does too.

And then what's left of the air in the little closet shifts.

"Derek…"

There's so little space between them. He hardly has to move at all to brush his lips softly against hers.

She pulls back, looking surprised.

"I'm sorry," he says immediately. "I shouldn't have…"

"It's okay."

She smiles a little, her eyes terribly sad under wet spiky lashes.

They're divorced.

And divorced people don't … kiss, but they were grieving a loss that came when they were married. He was just trying to comfort her like he couldn't then, and she was his wife then.

He reaches out a hand carefully, and she lets him; he just moves some damp hair off her cheek, then tucks it behind her ear. She watches him, wary but unresisting.

"I should have been there."

"You didn't know," she reminds him.

"Other times. Other times when I knew things I … should have been there."

She doesn't answer.

"Addie…"

"They were so in love," she says softly. "They were happy people. They didn't deserve this."

 _They…_ "Jamie? And her husband?"

She nods.

"You, uh, you think they'll get through it?"

She glances up at his question. "I don't know. But at least they have each other."

He looks down at his hands, remembers her sliding into the gallery next to him, wearing the same royal blue scrubs he was. Her hair was the same way that day it is now.

 _I'm lonely, Derek,_ she said that day and maybe she's saying it again tonight.

"Seattle is …"

"…a hellscape?" She smiles a little bit, tearily. "That's what Callie said."

"There you go," he says. "You've got Callie Torres on your side."

"Yeah?" She looks up, sniffling. "I like her."

"She likes you."

Addison fiddles with the cuffs on her jacket. "It doesn't matter, anyway."

"It matters. Everyone needs friends."

"Most people have more than I do." Addison sniffs. "I know it's my own fault, but …"

"It's not."

She looks surprised.

"I mean, it is … what you did … but it's mine, what I did. I didn't really get a chance to apologize."

"You started," she acknowledged.

"I started." He's embarrassed, remembering.

So much has happened between them since then, the papers, and _you take the brownstone,_ and _I want never to see you again,_ and _you're staying in Seattle?_ And now this, this phantom daughter he never knew whose auburn curls – the ones she was at least seven months away from growing – are emblazoned on his mind.

"I, uh, I didn't get to finish though."

"You drank my champagne," she says with a hint of a smile.

"Just a sip," he says, "and it seemed like you'd had enough." He says it lightly but her frozen face floats before his mind. She was numb, her voice expressionless. Drunk, and fairly far gone, but he hadn't wanted to think about it, he'd just wanted to deliver his apology. And leave.

 _Very_ drunk and the idea of Mark sleeping with her in that state irritates him. Though he knows it's none of his business, not anymore.

"You always shared your champagne," he says instead, trying not to dwell, and she smiles a little.

"I really am sorry," he says quietly. "What I did, it was … a mistake, in a lot of ways. I hurt you and I hurt Meredith."

He notes that she is looking at him with interest, and doesn't flinch when he mentions Meredith.

"She wanted to be left alone. She didn't want to be a dirty mistress. And I … didn't give that to her, I pursued her and … it wasn't fair."

"That sounds like an apology to Meredith," Addison says quietly, and fairly.

He nods. "You're right." He pauses, feeling the weight of the apology he needs to make to her. "Addie, I … I thought I was trying. I did. I thought if I said I was trying, and we … but I guess it wasn't out of my system." He hangs his head a little bit. "I made myself look terrible and I know that. It was bad enough when everyone found out I was married and now …" He stops. "I'm sorry," he says again. "I'm sorry that I … cheated on you."

He hasn't said that out loud before and he pauses to consider it. He's not a cheater, or so he always thought.

He didn't have it in him to cheat.

Addison, Mark, they were the cheaters. They were far more manipulative than he was, strategic, complex thinkers where he was more black and white. They had flexible morals, they could … make excuses.

Not Derek. He was the good guy.

Except he cheated too. He told Addison he'd be right back, left her on the dance floor with her hands still floating in the air where he'd been holding her a moment before. He left her on the dance floor and followed Meredith into an exam room and minutes later he had black lace panties in his pocket and Callie Torres was glaring at him while she tied up Meredith's dress with sisterly protectiveness.

He cheated.

"I … didn't think you saw it that way," she says after a moment.

"I don't think I did," he admits. "But I think I was wrong."

"You?" She widens her eyes more than necessary.

"Very funny." He nudges her with his shoulder and she nudges him back. For a moment they sit next to each other on the cardboard box, not speaking.

"I'm not that popular around here, you know," he tells her softly. "I could … use a friend too."

Addison glances at him. "You have Meredith."

"That's different."

"And Mark," she adds.

"Mark's not my friend."

"He wants to be."

"Mark … wants to scorch the earth. That's what Mark wants."

Addison leans back, her mascara-ringed eyes looking tired. "I wish I could tell you being lonely gets easier," she says softly.

His stomach feels hollow again. "Torres is your friend," he reminds her.

"Callie." She sighs a little. "Callie is … great."

He nods. "Oh – I was supposed to tell you that she's looking for you."

"Callie was?" Addison brightens for a moment, then looks pensive. "When?"

"About … " he checks his watch. "Um, a few hours ago now."

"Oh." She glances at her blackberry. "She's in surgery now. Unexpected."

He can't help noting her disappointed expression. "Did you, um, did the two of you have plans?"

"We were going to get a drink. Well, we were going to get a drink the other night, when … after that case, but then she got paged. So we were going to get a drink tonight."

He nods. "Is that why –"

"No." She shakes her head, seeming to understand his question. "I was just walking down the stairs and I…" her voice trails off. "I just got tired, Derek. Tired of delivering bad news, tired of ruining everything I touch."

"You don't ruin everything you touch."

"Jamie was fine. She was happy. I ruined it."

"She wasn't fine. The baby was already gone when you saw her. She just didn't know yet."

For a moment they both contemplate the difference.

"Addison," he says gently.

"I live in a hotel," she interrupts him before he can continue. "I live in a hotel and I'm … I don't even want to leave this _closet_ because I'll have to go back to a big empty hotel room where the only person who notices if I … wake up in the morning is the housekeeper and that's only because I keep giving her extra money to bring me champagne."

She sounds somewhere between amused and horrified as she admits all this.

"You don't have to go back to your hotel."

She looks uneasily at him. "Derek…"

"I mean, we could get a drink," he says quickly.

"We – like you and me?"

"We, like you and me. You were going to get a drink with Callie. So get one with me instead."

"Oh." She looks down at her lab coat, toying with the cuffs. "No, that's okay."

"Why not?" he probes.

"I don't need a pity drink."

"It's not a _pity drink._ " He raises an eyebrow at her. "Is that even a thing?"

"Yeah – well, I don't know." She's back to playing with the sleeves of her jacket, avoiding his gaze. "Look, you don't need to feel sorry for me, Derek. I'm not this … pathetic thing."

"I don't," he says. "And you're not. I just think you should get a drink with me. And also … I think you could use a drink."

She expels an audible breath of agreement at this.

"Addison…"

"We're divorced."

"I'm aware of that. I didn't ask you to marry me, I asked you to get a drink with me."

He _did_ ask her to marry him once, and it all started when he asked her to get a drink with him. But that's neither here nor there, now.

Now the corner of her mouth quirks a little and he knows she's going to agree. He doesn't stand up though until she finishes nodding, slowly, and then he offers her his hand.

She takes it, even though he knows she could have stood up on her own. Even in those ridiculous shoes. Addison could always stand up on her own. It was leaning on him where they ran into trouble.

"Derek?"

He looks at her. She's fussing with her hair, the lapels of her lab coat, making herself presentable in her Addison way.

"Thanks," she says almost shyly.

"For what?"

"For … noticing me."

Apparently satisfied with her primping, she pulls open the closet door and walks out ahead of him; he finds a hand resting lightly on her back as it has for so many years, pure instinct. And she matches her pace to his, instinctually on her part, he's certain.

"Noticing you," he repeats when they're both squinting in the glare of the comparatively bright hallway. "So you don't think I'm oblivious?"

She turns back and looks at him, something warm flickering in her eyes.

"You weren't tonight," she says.

* * *

 _...and, flip. Oh man, I wasn't sure where this was going when I started, but I was envisioning like 1500 words. Um. That did not happen. Where are they after this? Not sure. They're getting a drink, that's all I know. Everything felt up in the air around this time in Season 3, and there were so freaking many missed opportunities for Addison and Derek to talk. Our babies just need to TALK. And me? I just need reviews. I'm THAT shameless. I promise I'm working on updating The Climbing Way and I sure could use some motivation to type type type like the monkey on caffeine I am. Thank you x 1,000 as always. Please let me know what you thought and if you have more ideas for flips!_


	18. After the End

**A/N:** I'm supposed to be on a ferry right now but it's drizzling so what better time to write another flip? This one is **LS'** s prompt, and it's a quickie: she requested the first night in the trailer after Doc died.

* * *

 **After the End  
** _(Episode 2.27, "Losing My Religion")_

* * *

Addison's on her knees, in jeans and a shirt he recognizes as his, holding a sponge and looking harried.

It's unexpected, but he's certainly opened the door to bigger surprises. He closes it behind him neatly before he speaks.

"What are you doing?"

She doesn't look up. "Cleaning."

"Cleaning …"

"His things." Her voice sounds strangely hollow.

"Oh."

Of course.

He sees Doc's food and water bowls have been scrubbed to a nearly glistening extent and are stacked next to her. She's working the sponge along the floor, wiping off something he can't see.

He sets his bag down, trying not to think of the dog's fur, wiry yet soft, the trusting way he moved against their hands, his tired eyes finally relaxing into peace.

"Thank you, for doing that."

"You don't have to thank me, Derek."

"Okay." He looks down at the top of her head, where her hair is messily piled with a clip. She swipes at some stray strands.

He glances automatically to the bed where Doc usually curls up at this time of –

Except Doc isn't here.

"I miss him," Addison says quietly, as if she can read his mind.

"Yeah. He was … "

"A lot of dog for only a little space." Addison smiles at him, then looks down at the floor again. "But his things are … we don't need them out now and they're just going to make me sad and you know – someone has to clean up and it … you can't just call an orderly, at home."

He's surprised to hear her call the trailer _home_ – he's done it, of course, _everything's fine, Addie, I'll just see you at home, okay?_ But he's not sure she has.

Her eyes are very bright, and he's surprised.

"Are you –"

"No," she says quickly. "It's just – I was still hoping he'd pull through."

"I was too."

"Truthfully?" Addison sits back on her heels, a sponge in one hand. "I, uh, I might have started to think that if he could pull through … then we could pull through too."

He glances at her.

"It's silly. I know. It's just … he was Meredith's, first, you know? And she couldn't handle him and she gave him to us and then he was ours."

 _Us._

 _Ours._

He wonders why he didn't think of that way, even though he was there when Meredith delivered the leash into their hands, and Addison walked Doc inside.

And now he's confused. Can a dog represent two different relationships? What are the rules here?

Maybe there are no rules.

He kneels down next to her on the floor.

"Can I help?"

It's Addison's turn to look surprised. Slowly, she hands him a chamois cloth that was sitting beside her on the floor and he swipes it against what looks like a water strain.

"Meredith seemed upset," Addison says tentatively. "About Doc, I mean."

"She was."

Addison studies his face. "She seemed like she might be upset with you, too."

"She's not."

"And it seemed like you might be upset with her, too."

"I'm not."

"Derek…"

"She's dating the vet," he says, taking the sponge from Addison's hand and scrubbing around the spot where the water dish used to sit.

"I know."

"You do?" He glances up, a bead of water dripping onto his palm.

She nods. "Meredith told me."

He can see in her eyes that she gets the import – of course she does, Addison doesn't miss much. He's the one who's usually not paying attention.

His cheeks heat up as he remembers the shower, her wet skin under his hands, her wide eyes locked on his until he screwed them tight shut with shame. The trusting, pliant weight of her against him as he vented his rage into her.

He's tired of things meaning other things, the dog that was his affair that was his marriage, the shower that was _hot_ , with water and anger at someone else. The trailer that's a fisherman he's really not, the empty land he's supposed to fill with the future of a different person.

The same wife.

Different home, different sheets, different _air_ out here, wet and green, but still … the same wife.

He opens his mouth with no idea what he'll say and fairly desperate for her help and then she's speaking so he doesn't have to.

"He was our first pet," she says softly.

He blinks. He never thought about it that way.

Maybe that was the problem.

Addison is a friend to animals, always has been – that might surprise someone who only knew her professional veneer, her chilly outsides, but it never surprised him. But their schedules never allowed for a pet, not one with four legs instead of a tail, anyway. It wouldn't be fair, not with how much they worked.

His mother used to hint at it, that a pet would help them prepare for –

Wait.

"Doc wasn't our first pet. You forgot about Hippocrates."

Addison blinks. "I guess I did."

 _Hippocrates._ The name was his idea. Mark, who was there that Christmas, preferred Don Mattingly. Addison proposed _non-too-subtle-metaphor_ , but only behind his mother's back.

The goldfish, of course, came from his mother, a plump little red and gold swaying thing in an old fashioned bowl with a depressed-looking plastic scuba diver staring up at the air from a bed of colorful rocks. She tied a red ribbon around the bowl and said _Merry Christmas_ and Addie made all the right noises of appreciation and then dragged him into the kitchen.

They'd been married five years. Addison was offended, brimming with reasons why his mother was trying to pressure her to have children. He brushed them off, kissed her and assured her his mother didn't intend any harm, _you know she loves you, Addie,_ and he said he'd talk to her but he didn't.

He didn't say anything.

He wonders if it's too late now.

"Hippocrates was a metaphor," he admits finally. "Doc … Doc was a dog."

"He was a good dog."

"He still is, somewhere." Derek sits back on his heels. "My father had us convinced when Brownie died that there's an actual dog heaven. Tons of grass, squirrels to chase, even a toddler's high chair since that was always Brownie's favorite spot in the house." Derek smiles at the memory. In those days there was always a high chair in the Shepherds' house and Brownie, no dummy, knew just where to hover for table scraps. Derek can close his eyes still and summon a memory of Brownie in the last year of his life licking spilled milk from Amy's chubby baby cheeks. _Ew, gross,_ one of his older sisters squealed and his mother just laughed it off. _He did the same to you, do you think I had time to wipe up every spill?_ He remembers she patted Brownie on his regal old head, stooped by that point, and said, _good dog._

Doggie heaven. Carolyn hadn't approved of his father's tale, exactly, but she rarely contradicted her husband and instead just warned the children not to mention doggie heaven to the nuns who taught their Sunday school classes.

He can tell by Addison's expression that she remembers too. She wasn't there, of course, but you can't be married to someone for eleven years without their childhood stories seeping into you like sunshine. For as long as Addison has been coming to his mother's house, there's been a framed portrait of all five kids and Brownie snapped in the Shepherds' backyard. Amy's just a baby kicking resentfully at Nancy and Derek's _knee high to a grasshopper,_ as his mother used to say fondly.

"Doggie heaven," Addison muses. "You really think Doc's still … alive somewhere?"

They're surgeons. It's ridiculous.

Metaphors are metaphors and marriage is marriage and Derek thinks about the shape of the word _try_ and the cool metal on the warm hand that's somehow found his.

"I really do," he says.

* * *

 _Okay, so my take on this is about as subtle as the original episode BUT I kind of loved the idea that just as Derek and Meredith were seeing Doc as an extension of their relationship, Addison was doing the same thing with Derek. Hey, you heard the man: there are no rules about dog metaphors. LS, I hope you liked your short little flip, which at least proves I can write chapters under 5,000 words if I REALLY try. Thanks as always for the wonderful responses and I hope you'll review and tell me what you think of this little canine tale (get it, get it?). Don't forget to leave me prompts for new flips - even if I've already flipped the episode once, I'd love to hear your take on another flip!_


	19. She's Waking Up

**A/N:** Oh hi there, it's me, the one who has a lot of work to do this weekend and is totally not updating every day, no sir, not me. Hi. It's script-flipping time because it's been ages and Addek just write themselves sometimes. This comes from 3.14, aka the one with the toxic patient and the bitterly painful Maddek metaphor.

I have been keeping track of requests by subject matter but sometimes I forget who requested what ... but I know **montgomeryana** mentioned 3.14 in her review of the last chapter. This is inspired by her request, though it might be a bit different, and it's technically a post episode. I know, I know, I'm a cheater. Just like Addison, right, Shonda? ;-)

So 3.14, smack in the middle of Season 3 post-divorce depression (mine and Addison's, not Derek's, of course), and the infamous Mark-catches-Addison scene when she stumbles out of the OR. Derek and Burke brush past in their HAZMAT suits that make them look like cute astronauts; Burke looks back at Addison as she collapses into Mark's arms and Derek ... doesn't. This scene was dissected over and over back in the day and people (I'm not naming names, but, you know, ME), even watched it frame by frame to confirm that Derek didn't look back. It's kind of funny when you think it could be just angles or weird stage direction - but it ended up looking like a big-ass metaphor, with Derek too busy working to notice Addison needed help, and Mark there to catch her when she fell. (Could my author's notes be longer? Don't dare me ...)

One of my favorite Season 3 flip tropes is Derek realizing he's a bit of an ass, so that's the basis of this flip. So with apologies to **montgomeryana,** I didn't flip the fainting this time, but I hope you'll read on and see what you think. See, if Derek had realized Addison was in trouble, maybe he might have actually, I don't know, had a conversation ...

* * *

 **She's Waking Up**  
( _Episode 3.14, "Wishin' and Hopin'")_

* * *

"Addison's okay."

Derek looks up from his notes at the non sequitur and sees Mark standing over him holding a cup of coffee.

"Okay," he responds, confused. "Why wouldn't she be?"

"I don't know, maybe … a toxic patient?" Mark pulls out a chair without waiting for an invitation – when did Mark ever wait for an invitation – and sits down.

"That was yesterday," Derek reminds him, glancing around the lounge, currently empty except for the two of them.

"No kidding."

"Mark ... " Derek sets his pen down on the notes he was reviewing and sighs. "What do you want from me?"

"I guess the same thing you're willing to give … nothing."

Derek frowns, sizing the other man up. "You're trying to psych me out, aren't you. Bringing up Addison, trying to make me feel guilty – so you can get ahead of us for chief. Nice try."

Mark looks genuinely surprised. "For … chief? You think that's why …" he shakes his head. "That's your response. Of course it is."

"Why else would you – " Derek stops talking, annoyed. "You do realize I saw her afterwards," Derek reminds him, "in recovery. And she was fine, and we both watched you manipulate Richard into thinking _you'd_ be a good chief. Which is … laughable."

Now Mark looks a little hurt.

That's not the only thing he noticed in the recovery room yesterday; he noticed Mark standing by Addison's gurney with a proprietary hand on her hair, making a show of adjusting her oxygen mask … marking his territory just like he did with the chief a moment later.

"Were you there yesterday or not?"

Derek looks up at the other man's question.

"What do you mean? Of course I was there. Preston and I – you know this. Weren't you running the show, or at least putting _on_ a show?"

"I mean _before_ you went in," Mark says. "When the patient woke up on the table and your ex-wife ran in there without protective gear to knock her out again."

Derek blinks. "What are you asking?"

Mark takes a sip of coffee.

"You said yourself she's fine, Mark. What's the issue?"

"But you didn't know she was fine."

"I saw her in recovery – " Derek stops talking, realizing he's repeating himself. "Look, Mark, you may have nothing better to do to sit here and talk in circles, but if you don't mind, I'd like to get back to work."

"I guess I just thought it was interesting that when she was tripping out of there and barely conscious, _Burke_ looked back to see if she was okay and you just sailed right into the OR."

Derek is taken aback. "Sailed right – I was about to operate on a toxic patient."

"So was Burke."

Derek shakes his head. "She wasn't – " he stops. "Barely conscious. Was she?"

"How do you think she got out of there?"

"Walked?"

Mark shakes his head. "You were so busy suiting up you didn't see her come crashing through the door, huh?"

"Crashing…" Derek frowns at the dramatic choice of word. "She fell?"

Mark shakes his head.

"So how did she …"

"I caught her." Mark flexes one bicep, but doesn't smile.

"Oh. Well, what do you want, a medal?" Derek asks irritably. "Anyone else would have done the same thing."

"Anyone else," Mark repeats; Derek doesn't like his tone.

"I was _working_ ," Derek says stiffly. "And anyway, you were there to catch her, so why does it matter?"

Mark is staring at him.

"What?"

"Nothing, I guess," Mark says quietly, "if you don't hear it."

"Hear what?"

"Like I said … nothing." Mark stands up. "I really should get back to work."

Derek just stares at him as he saunters out of the attendings' lounge, somehow even the back of his head managing to look insolent.

..

He brushes Mark's words aside to focus on work and dips out between consults to grab some sustenance. It's nice outside – a sliver or two of sun slicing between the omnipresent clouds, and he looks through the large windows at the outdoor seating as he pays for his coffee. There are clusters of scrubs of various colors and white coats gathered around most of the small tables.

One of them has only one occupant though.

A sole occupant in a white coat with a red plastic tray in front of her, chin in her hand, other hand – well, he can't see it from this angle but he'd be willing to bet money it's pushing food around on her plate. Salad, it will be salad.

 _She's okay,_ that's what Mark said.

Of course she is. There's no reason why she wouldn't be.

But they're … civil, mature, and there's no reason why he can't just … say hello.

"Hi."

She looks up, surprised. "Hi," she says hesitantly.

"Can I … " He gestures toward the chair his hand is resting on.

"Um … sure."

He pulls out the chair and settles in, propping an elbow on the table where his coffee is now resting and nodding toward her tray.

"How's your salad?"

"It's … salad. Derek, did you … is something wrong?"

"No," he says, leaning back in his chair, but not before helping himself to one of the cherry tomatoes he's not surprised to see are lined up abandoned on the side of her plate. Addison has always eschewed cherry tomatoes unless they were already sliced, for fear they'd pop and their juices would mar her outfit. He's teased her over the years for letting couture win out over lycopene, but …

"What is it, then?"

She seems genuinely curious, not annoyed, but – for some reason it bothers him, a little, that she thinks he needs an urgent reason to say hello.

"I wanted to see how you're doing."

Her expression changes to one of disbelief, then neutralizes. "Oh. You're serious. I'm fine, Derek, why wouldn't I be?"

 _That's what I said._

"I, uh, I talked to Mark, and – "

"You talked to Mark?" Her face changes a little. "What did he say?"

"That you were okay."

"Oh. Well, I am."

"Good."

"Did he … say anything else?"

"No," Derek lies. "Why?"

"No reason."

He notices the tight grip she has on her fork.

"Addison…"

"You saw me afterwards, Derek. You know, in recovery."

"That's what I told Mark," Derek agrees. "That I saw you in recovery and you were okay. Okay enough to be annoyed by Mark, which is … always a good sign. We should put it on the intake forms."

She smiles a little.

"You went in there without gear," he says.

"I know that. I was there."

"So was I."

The words sit in the air for a minute and then he's back in the scrub room, suiting up, and Mark is yelling through the glass, and he hears it, _get the hell out of there!_

"We were two minutes out," he says, suddenly finding himself annoyed at her insistence on heroism.

"She didn't have two minutes! She was _awake_ and open on the table, Derek, do you have any idea what it was like for her?"

"That doesn't mean you endanger yourself," he snaps. "There's an emergency protocol for hazardous – "

"I wasn't teaching a course, damn it, I was trying to help someone who needed me." She pauses, getting control over her voice. "You didn't say anything yesterday."

"I was suiting up," he responds, not really able to keep the defensiveness out of his tone. "Burke told you not to go in, didn't he?"

"Yeah. Burke did. Burke's not in charge of me."

"Well, neither am I," he says automatically.

She looks down at her plate. "Yes. I'm aware. So … now that we've cleared up the hospital hierarchy, if there's nothing else you need …."

"I knew Mark was there," he says abruptly.

Her brow furrows. "What do you mean?"

"Outside the OR. When you were … you shouldn't have gone in there, but … I knew you weren't going to fall when you came out."

"Oh." She seems to be considering this. "Okay."

"Mark, uh, he said he had to carry you out of there."

 _Implied,_ really, but he might as well have said it outright. Mark isn't exactly known for his subtlety.

"I guess so. I don't know," she admits. "I was out of it for a while."

He frowns. "You were awake when I saw you in recovery." He realizes that was hours later, after the surgery. "Addison …"

"It just took a little time, that's all," she assures him. "Oxygen, and … it's not a big deal."

Addison's horrified voice: _She's fighting intubation._

Burke, sternly: _We go inside before these seals are secure, we wouldn't last five minutes and she will die._

Mark on the microphone: _Get the hell out of there!_

Derek was silent.

If he searches his memory he can recall her stumbling, the clanking on instruments falling to the ground.

 _Burke looked back to see she was okay and you just sailed right past._

He didn't look back.

"I knew you weren't going to fall," he repeats, tracing the wrought iron whorls of the table with one distracted finger. "I figured you – knew what you were doing."

"I didn't," she says. "I was just doing what I had to do."

Mark still had the microphone on and he remembers hearing Addison's voice echoing back through the scrub room. She was starting to fade and her voice was choked but she was using her reserves to comfort the patient as she dosed her back into unconscion.

 _It's okay … you're okay … it's okay._

"Right." He looks down at her hand playing with her fork. For so many years her rings would catch the light and he almost forgot they're gone now – as they should be, with nothing flickering in their wake.

"Derek."

He looks up, not sure if she saw what caught his attention.

"Is, um, is that … all you wanted to say?"

"Yeah, I guess so." He braces his feet on the ground, preparing to push back the chair. "Good luck with chief," he adds, not really sure where that's coming from.

Her eyes widen. "Are you trying to psych me out? _Don't_ try to psych me out." She points her fork at him. "I'm not psych-out-able."

"I'm not psych-out-ing." He holds up his hands in surrender. "If you need to beat me to beat Mark, you have my backing. As long as Mark's not chief."

She smiles a little at this. "Mark as chief …"

"We'd have to flee the hospital."

"We'd have to flee the city," she counters.

"We'd have to flee the _profession_ ," he says, pausing. "Go into something else. Music. Think it's too late to take up drumming?"

"Since you don't live with me anymore … then no, it's never too late to take up drumming."

He chuckles. "Well, I'm, uh … I'm glad you're okay," he says, pushing back his chair, then remembering what he was doing right before lunch.

"I know it's a precaution, but I actually rechecked my bloods today, just to make sure." He pauses. "You probably did the same thing."

She's looking past him, her chin propped in her hand.

"Addison?"

"Hm?"

"Your post-exposure labs," he reminds her.

"What about them?"

"You ran them twice, didn't you?"

She looks back at her plate. "Yeah, I ran them twice."

There's something in her tone he doesn't like.

"And," he prompts.

"And I ran them twice," she says.

"Addison."

"Derek, it's fine."

He pulls his chair out again and sits down. "So they were clear?"

She doesn't answer; she just uses the side of her fork to slice clear through a cucumber and it's this surprising gap in table manners that makes his heart beat faster.

"Addison. Were your labs clear?"

"They were fine, Derek." When his gaze doesn't waver, she sighs. "There was a slight … abnormality, but they're just going to check up on it or whatever."

"What does that mean, _check up on it or whatever?_ "

She blinks. "I, uh, I guess they're planning to test my levels, you know, periodically. Something about the exposure time and the … you know, since I wasn't wearing a suit."

"How periodically?"

"Every six weeks."

"For how long?"

"For a while."

"How long a while? Addison?"

She looks down at her plate. "A year," she says.

"A year?" His chest feels cold. Sixty seconds exposed to the toxic patient and she won't be clear for a year?

"Derek … it's just a precaution."

"Addison." He expels a frustrated breath. It's none of his business. She chose the risk. "Okay. So, you're following up in six weeks?"

She nods, looking away.

"Will you tell me what they say?"

"Why?"

"Because I want to know."

She twists a fold of napkin between her fingers. "Yeah, okay."

"Thank you." He pauses, remembering her words from earlier. "Wait. What was the abnormality in the labs? Something else?"

"Liver enzymes," she says, looking down at her plate, "just some elevation, but it's to be expected."

"What were the numbers?"

"Derek, I'm not your patient, you can stop taking my medical history."

He glances up and sees O'Malley walking by, giving him a curious look, and hastens to look back down at the table. "Would you just tell me?"

She does.

" _Addison_."

"It's fine," she says firmly. "It was probably a fluke, and they're redoing the GGT tomorrow and the others – "

"Who's redoing it?"

"Stern," she says, "Callie's friend in hepatology, he's … good."

He frowns. "He's redoing the tests tomorrow? Morning?"

She nods.

"I'll go with you," he says.

She looks up at him, surprised.

He's a little surprised himself.

"That's not necessary, Derek."

"I know it's not necessary. I want to." He pauses, trying to understand her reaction.

 _Oh_.

"If Mark's already planning to …."

"Mark?" She shakes her head, looking a little rueful. "No, I … didn't tell him."

"Oh." He takes a sip of coffee. "Okay. Then I'm going with you."

"Derek … we're divorced."

He looks down at his bare left hand where it rests on the table. "I'm aware."

"So why are you …."

She stops talking, sounding tired.

For a few long moments the only sounds around them are the chatter rising from other lunch tables and the rustling leaves on the trees that abut the overhang.

"You said you never wanted to see me again," she says quietly, breaking the silence between them.

She's in half-profile, her chin lifted just slightly, and he studies her face for a moment, not sure how to respond.

"I didn't expect you to take that so literally," he says finally.

She actually starts to smile for a moment, but it doesn't reach her eyes.

"I'm sorry," he adds. "I … you blindsided me, that day."

"I know." She looks down at what's left of her salad. "I'm sorry too."

He reaches for a cherry tomato in lieu of addressing her apology. It's complicated, their history. Salads, though … salads are easy. He takes another and pops it into his mouth, and then one more until there's only one left.

"Help yourself," she says, sounding amused.

"I have been."

"You know, they serve salads right in there." She points toward the cafeteria. "You could go and get your own salad."

"What's the fun in that?"

She smiles a little, then looks back down at her plate, poking at a green pepper. "Look, Derek, I know you're, uh, disappointed I didn't move back to New York when we … that I didn't move back to New York."

He's not sure how to answer that.

"I know you're staying," he says. "You're in the chief race," he reminds her. "Can't do that from New York."

"No – well, yeah, I guess that's part of it." She looks away for a moment. "I'm just, uh, I'm sorry you have to see me around."

He frowns. "I don't mind seeing you around."

"But you said – "

"I was angry. And that was months ago."

"Oh." She looks down at her plate.

He's surprised, and a little confused. It's not like they haven't spoken since then. Sure, he told her he never wanted to see her again and in that moment, when he first learned of her lie, he didn't.

It's not like she's never heard him blow off steam before. He's said plenty in anger before.

"Then you're not mad that I'm still here," she says doubtfully.

"I was a little surprised," he admits. "I thought you hated Seattle."

 _And you only moved here for me_ , but he doesn't have to make that explicit; they both know.

"I did hate Seattle. But, you know, I finally found a hair product to combat the humidity. No sense wasting it."

"Now you're speaking my language." He leans back in his chair and dares to smile at her. "I don't suppose you're going to start wearing flannel …."

She takes a sip of coffee. "You never know."

He glances at his blackberry to check the time; it's later than he realized. "I guess I should …"

"Yeah. Me too." She glances down at her tray. "Derek … "

He looks up.

"You really don't have to go with me tomorrow."

"Okay."

He sees a muscle twitch slightly under her eye.

"But I'm going with you anyway."

She opens her mouth as if to start speaking, then closes it again, gesturing to her plate.

"You forgot a tomato," she says.

* * *

 _Come on, you guys, why can't you just TALK. Talking makes everything better. That ... and sharing food. Power to the Addek Revolution and, as always, feel free to suggest flips. (If you already did, it's probably on my list, but new ideas and reminder pokes are always welcome.) And please review ... because you know I love reviews like the Grey's writers love acting like Addison is the only character in the Shondaverse who cheated._


	20. Here is Where You'll Stay

**A/N : Hi,** beautiful Addek peeps. Back with another flip. A short one. JK, it's super long. Oops. This one was prompted by LS (hi, LS!) and derives inspiration from Emk8, who always makes me think. LS asked for a flip of the end of Into You Like a Train, where Addek leave the hospital together arm in arm ... Derek looking sort of reluctant. And the most gorgeous song plays us out of the episode.

So, I know I ask you guys to listen to music while you read a lot. Maybe too often. But this song is so beautiful. And so is the other one. And you should listen. I mean, a lot of Grey's music choices are amazing. But I especially loved the symmetry that Emiliana Torrini is singing when Derek takes Addison back ("Today Has Been Okay," at the end of Into You Like a Train), and also when we flash back to Derek leaving Addison ("Nothing Brings Me Down," during the Flashback That Destroyed All Our Hearts in Time Has Come Today).

This is a weird flip, picking up at the end of the previous episode in order to get us to the end of the next. I found myself wondering how and when Derek told Addison he wasn't signing, and how that played into their strangely sad and poignant hospital exit in the next episode.

Finally, hurricane-affected readers, we are all pulling for you. Stay safe.

All in all, revolutionaries, thank you for being such amazing readers. I hope you'll enjoy, and let me know what you think.

* * *

 **Here is Where You'll Stay  
** _(2.06, "Into You Like a Train")_

 _..._

 _wind has burned your skin  
the lovely air so thin  
the salty water's underneath your feet  
no one's gone in vain  
here is where you'll stay  
'cause life has been insane but  
today has been ok_

 _..._

"So. Are you going to sign those divorce papers, or not?"

She's standing over him like a challenge – no surprise there, it's just not usually quite this literal.

He doesn't answer.

One hand is propped on her hip. "Well?"

 _Well? How about well, I don't know. Or well, I can't think when you're looming over me like that. Or well, you lost the right to be this demanding when you screwed my best friend._

"I don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

He stares at the linoleum floor.

"Derek, they're papers. You sign, I sign, we get a divorce. You don't sign, I don't sign ... we're still married. Doing nothing is still a choice here."

Doing nothing is still a choice. He ponders that for the millisecond she gives him to think before she starts in again. Is that what happened to their marriage? By choosing to do nothing, they did something after all?

"I need more time."

"You've had plenty of time."

"Addison." He stares at her for a moment. He'd be somewhat impressed with her outrageously presumptuous stance ... except he knows it's as much put on as the heavier-than-usual makeup.

She's been dressed for battle since she got here.

Well, with the exception of the NICU. But that was a moment of weakness on his part. Wasn't it? Late daylight shadowing the nursery as she leaned over the isolette, highlighting the gold in her red hair? She stood over him then, too, a challenge. But a different kind of challenge. Outwardly teasing and light, leaning over him with heavy-lidded eyes and parted lips. It was expectation.

This? Less expectation, more decimation.

He glances at his bag. "I need to go get some papers."

"What? No you don't." She looks annoyed. "You're just avoiding my question."

She's right, of course, which makes him annoyed.

"Derek ... we need to talk about this."

He massages the bridge of his nose. "I'll meet you back here," he says.

"When?" She calls the word after his retreating back.

"When I'm ready," he says, enjoying his own pettiness.

...

In his office he shoves a few papers into his briefcase - with no idea why, after what she's done, he still feels the need to maintain the illusion that he wasn't lying to her.

He stares at the empty space on his desk to the right of his telephone and the left of his oversized monitor. There's nothing there.

He's looking at nothing.

He's looking at the space where a sterling frame sat in his office in New York. The same frame in the same spot for the last eight years.

It's a candid shot. He was never sure if Addison approved, or would have preferred a wedding portrait or a step-and-repeat couple shot, at least. This picture is just Addison, and she takes up most of the frame in a simple white sleeveless shirt, one of her freckled shoulders raised to suggest she's either toasting him or throwing something at him.

He always liked the ambiguity.

And she's smiling, all the way through to her eyes, sunglasses propped on her head.

They were at the house in Amagansett when he snapped the picture - it was the year they bought it, and it was spring, not summer, the dogwood pink and white next to her ear bringing him instantly back to cocktails in the garden, the undisturbed blue jewel of a pool, the smell of freshly cut grass.

He wonders if Seattle will ever become a place he can recognize by the barest trace of a branch in a corner of a photograph.

He left the frame in New York, along with all his other things.

His secretary, Lynda, included it when she sent the box of his things from New York. She was organized to the point of obsession, always, which he liked, and the box was packed perfectly in reverse order so he could unpack and line his new desk from left to right.

He sent Lynda flowers to thank her and to apologize for leaving her abruptly - Cohen had been trying to poach her for years, she'll be well taken care of, but he still felt guilty.

And maybe a small part of him felt petty too ... because that part liked the idea that if Addison dropped by his office to pump Lynda for information on his whereabouts, she'd be confronted with a massive bouquet of flowers from her husband. He made sure they included several white peonies, Addison's favorite. And she would ask. Addison always asked. If Derek saw a bouquet of flowers on someone's desk, he'd take in the information like he did everything else: logically. Mechanically.

Addison, though? She'd squeal admiration, ask questions. _From your boyfriend? Oh, he's a keeper! From your husband? Wow, he remembered, they're so beautiful._

So he knew she'd ask Lynda. Only if she went to his office.

But he knew she'd go to his office.

This would be easier if he didn't know as much as he did.

He didn't know she'd sleep with Mark. Not until he opened the front door, anyway.

And he didn't know she'd show up in Seattle. Not until he caught sight of her inimitable walk, the way the glass doors fell open so she could mark what should be his territory.

But Lynda included the frame. It looked just like it did in New York. Wasn't that strange? Shouldn't it have reflected the shattering of trust, the glass as fragmented as their marriage? Lynda was too precise not to include it. And he was too protective of his hands to smash it. He stared at it, that's all, the contours of it he'd memorized, so different from the tearful rain-soaked face he left behind in their brownstone.

He could throw it out.

He wanted to - god, he wanted to, but for some stupid reason he couldn't make himself do it. It was something about how Addison's parents threw out so many of her belongings when she went to boarding school and they redecorated her wing of the house. When she told the story she didn't even look upset about clothes - clothes were replaceable. It was the photographs. In 1982, they weren't so replaceable.

She had a thing about throwing out pictures. He never pressed her on it; they always had space, storage, and if his sweet wife was a little sentimental, maybe a little superstitious, was that such a bad thing?

Maybe.

Maybe it was.

Either way, the picture never made it onto the desk, just in it. Face down in a jumble of personnel forms and receipts in the right bottom drawer.

But the spot stayed empty.

The first few days in his new office he tried moving things into the gap, the pen set his mother bought for him when he graduated from medical school or a stack of embossed notes, or even a less dignified box of Kleenex.

Nothing stuck.

The space stayed open to the air, less a scar than a healing wound.

He traces his fingers over its surface now. It feels a little warm, like skin. Like something happened there. He closes his eyes briefly.

When I'm ready, he told her.

But will he ever be ready?

He fingers one of the heavy silver pens, testing his weight. All he has to do is sign his name. Derek Shepherd, M.D. How many times a day does he etch his signature? Every chart, every form. Every check he writes, deeds, bills - what's the saying? That most of being an adult is signing your name and trying to show up on time?

One more signature, that's all.

I'll sign and be on the next flight out of here, she assured him, the assurance a threat.

He could sign.

And she'll be gone like the picture frame, stuffed in an airplane instead of a junk drawer.

Doesn't she deserve to be thrown away, after everything she's done?

Meredith asked: is there anything to think about?

No, he said the first time.

if only that were true.

things would be a hell of a lot easier.

Like Bailey said ... he wouldn't be in this much pain.

...

She's sitting down in the waiting room chairs when he approaches, like he was when she approached. Taking turns. He walks softy and doesn't speak but he sees the change in her posture when she knows he's there, like a turtle ducking back into Iran protective shell.

She doesn't turn around.

"I'm not signing," he says.

She looks up, too quickly to hide the surprise in her eyes. Standing over her chair, he has the height advantage now. "You're not," she repeats.

"No. I'm not."

"Oh." Suspicion crosses her face. "Why not?"

"Do you want me to sign?"

"If that's what you want."

He drops into one of the chairs, exhausted. "What does that even mean?"

"I don't know." She smiles a little like it's just wordplay, the kind they've enjoyed for years, and he feels one quick flash of hatred.

 _What kind of man hates his wife?_

One whose wife slept with his best friend – but she's given him an out, hasn't she?

He could sign.

He still could.

"So ... you're not signing."

"No, I guess I'm not."

"Okay, then." She pauses. "So what happens now?"

She hasn't thought past her next victory, he realizes.

"I don't know," he admits.

"Derek ... I want to go to marriage counseling." She raises her chin, as if she's expecting a fight.

"Fine."

She blinks. "Okay. What do you ... want?"

"What do I want?" He leans back in the chair. He's not sure what he wants. Isn't that the whole point? "For you not to screw other people, I guess, even though that ship has sailed."

"Your ship too." She taps at the armrest.

"Not the same thing. And you know it."

"So the counselor..."

Of course she sidesteps his comment. He doesn't reward her by asking her to continue. Not like Addison has ever needed his permission.

"There's someone that Savvy recommends, a counselor I mean."

"How does Savvy know a marriage counselor in Seattle?"

She blinks. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Addison." He leans forward, not sure if she's feigning or just demonstrating confusion. "I'm not going back to New York."

"But you didn't sign." For just a second the artifice slips away and behind her confusion is something like vulnerability.

"No."

"So you don't want to get a divorce."

"I didn't sign," he repeats, rewarded by a brief flash of hurt in her eyes.

"How are we supposed to – " She looks at him, realizing what he means. "Oh, no."

He lifts an eyebrow.

"I'm not staying in this town any longer than I have to."

"Maybe you have to stay in town for a while," he says pointedly.

"Derek." She lowers her voice so it's cajoling, somewhere just north of a purr. "I know you're angry with me, I get it, but once we're actually home, we can start sorting through it."

"No."

"We need to move on with our lives like adults and this isn't where we're going to do it, in some mid-life crisis lumberjack fantasy-"

"No!" It's a shout this time and she flinches.

Just slightly, just enough to flash him straight back to shouting over her hunched body as she cowered on the staircase.

 _Get out of my house, now!_

He can overpower her. Just not in the ways that matter.

"I'm not going back to New York," he says quietly, flexing one of the offending hands. "I'm staying here."

"Okay," she says, her voice calm, almost soothing. "Okay, Derek, we can stay in town for a while."

He recognizes that tone. He knows her tricks. Agree with him now, and then work it out later. Get her own way later. Addison doesn't drop fights because she's giving in; with her, it's the opposite. She only walks away from a fight when the walk _is_ the fight.

And in his experience … she'll be back when she's reloaded.

She'll face a different opponent, does she know that? Has she realized he's a different person than he was in New York?

"You're living in a trailer," she points out.

"I'm aware."

"I'm not going to live in a trailer."

"I don't recall asking you to," he says and feels a mean bit of gladness when her cheeks flush.

"How are we supposed to …"

"Would you give it a damn minute, Addison, maybe a little break between seeing you screwing my best friend and you expecting me to jump back into bed with you?"

She draws back stiffly. "You didn't take a little break before you started sleeping with that intern."

"Don't even think about comparing what _you_ did to what we had."

The different verbs aren't lost on her.

What she and Mark _did._

What he and Meredith _had._

Words are weapons to Addison; she's always paying attention.

"Derek," she says, condescension dripping from her smooth voice, "one more middle-aged attending sleeping with a starry-eyed intern is hardly the love story of the century."

"Would you shut up," he mutters tiredly. "You really want to make me regret this decision already?"

Her mouth opens, then closes. "It's _your_ decision."

"Doesn't mean I can't regret it. Like I do the first one," and he throws the words out carelessly, still knowing they'll hit their target.

"Your first one." She sits up straighter, her eyes wide. "Marrying me? That's what you regret?"

"I didn't say that." He hates this feeling of being trapped, and she's so good at it. Only Addison could fuck his best friend and still somehow end up with the upper hand.

She makes a show of putting the divorce papers into her briefcase.

"So … we're not signing," he says numbly. Somehow the papers disappearing makes it seem more real.

"No, I guess we're not." Her lips quirk. "Do you … want to get a drink?"

 _I'm going to be at Joe's._

"No," he says hastily.

"So are you just going to go back to hating me? You don't want to sign the papers, but you don't want to talk to me?"

"Can you be patient for once in your life?"

He stands up.

"Where are you going?"

"You lost the right to ask me that when you screwed my best friend."

She's silent for a moment – victory personified – and then her tone softens.

"I was just asking."

"Fine."

"Derek, I want to … spend time together." Her voice shakes a little, probably imperceptible to anyone but him. They know each other too damned well, maybe that's the problem.

"It's not like I know anyone else in this town," she adds.

"I'm sorry your dance card isn't full yet, Addison, but I'm not getting a drink tonight. I'll just – see you tomorrow."

"You smiled at me," she says softly.

"Excuse me?"

"Before, when I was in the gallery … you looked up, and you smiled."

"I was wearing a mask."

"We've spent our entire surgical careers together, Derek, you think I don't know when you're smiling in a mask?"

Think, no.

Hoped? Maybe.

Of course he'd seen her, looking down on him with something like pride, folded arms and soft benevolent cast to her features.

She was surprised when he didn't sign the papers. Is that what the gallery was? A goodbye?

"You smiled," she says again and he responds to the accusatory push in her words.

"If I was smiling, it wasn't at you."

"Derek, I saw – "

"I was smiling at my wife," he says quietly, imbuing the rather depressing words with as much dignity as he can.

"I'm your wife."

"In a manner of speaking."

"Derek, where are you – look, you're not really giving me much hope here."

"Now you know how I felt when I left New York."

"Maybe so."

"You're really going?"

"I'm really going."

She touches his arm and he pulls back as if he's been burned.

"Don't."

"Derek," she pleads. "You won't get a drink, you won't touch me – "

"I'll see you in the morning."

"Can we at least have coffee in the morning? There's this little French bakery I found in – "

"Fine," he says, more to shut her up than out of any sense that he'll enjoy the activity. "We can have coffee here. In the cafeteria."

"Okay." Her mouth moves toward a smile, somewhere in between. She has such mobile lips they can form a hundred different expressions, sometimes at once.

The less he thinks about her lips right now, the better.

"Good night," she says softly. "I hope you get some sleep."

…

He doesn't.

He's paged back to the middle of a nightmare.

One that doesn't end until he's let the elevator take the brunt of his misery, of the hopelessness that comes when you just can't do enough.

He's grateful for the privacy of his office, weak sunrise light filtering through the window. He needs to leave before he can't anymore.

"We never had that coffee."

He looks up and she's standing in his doorway.

"Addison … can you just give it a rest?"

"No." She takes a few steps into the office and looks at him. "Not when you need me."

"Need you. That's what you think?" He shakes his head. "Look, Addie, I'm exhausted, and I'm not in the mood. You should probably go before I say something I don't mean."

"You say things you don't mean all the time. Say something you _do_ mean for a change."

"I can't stand the sight of you right now."

He regrets the words instantly when her eyes fill with tears. She's always been able to manipulate him so well that he's almost forgotten what it looks like when an arrow actually hits its target.

"Then I'll just go."

"Addison, wait."

She turns around with a hand on the doorknob. Of course she turns around. If he'd let her go he probably would have found her outside his office door leaning against the wall. This is the same woman who'd storm out of their marital bed after a fight with the ostensible plan to sleep on the couch and end up curled on the oriental rug in the hallway feet from their bedroom instead.

He's the runner. The real one. Her steps? They've always been for show.

Except she's here, now.

"It was a hard night," he says quietly. It's not an apology, exactly, but her eyes soften just as if he'd said the word _sorry._

"I know, Derek. Let's go get some breakfast … and you can tell me about it."

"I'm not sure I can talk about it," he says honestly.

"Then let's get some breakfast, and we can talk about something else."

"I'm not hungry. It's been a ... long night."

"I know it has." She turns toward his shelves, propping a hand on her hip, maybe thinking. She's wearing a high-waisted grey skirt that hugs her hips, making her look curvier than she actually is. Addison is all about illusion, maybe even more so these days.

"Let's just go," she says softly. "Outside, where there's light and air and … we can just get coffee, if you're not hungry."

"I'll just see you later."

"Derek, you need to get out of the hospital."

"Give it up, Addie."

"No. if you wanted me to give it up, you should have signed the papers."

For a moment her words hang in the air between them.

Then her voice softens. "Remember the building collapse in the east village?"

He nods automatically.

"I was up all night trying to save that baby."

"You did save him," he recalls.

"Yeah. But not his mother."

Derek presses his lips together. There's no upside to remembering that morning, sunrise burning their exhausted eyes, Addie in her damp wrinkled scrubs with shadows under her eyes.

"Anyway, I didn't want to leave the hospital. Remember? I didn't want to do anything except … mope, but it was ten a.m. by then and you dragged me out for dollar slices and …" Her voice trails off.

It was so many years ago.

They were so young.

"…and you felt better," he prompts, figuring it's the end of the story.

"No," she says. "Not really." She laughs a little, looking almost helpless. "But I did … feel less alone, I guess."

She moves close enough to rest a hand on his chest; he flinches slightly, his gaze drawn to the hand. She's wearing her rings; they look heavy, like armor.

"We've been alone for a long time, Derek. The last few months … the last few _years._ If I'm staying in town, let's at least not be alone this morning."

"Just breakfast," he confirms.

"Just breakfast."

He nods slowly.

She smiles and he tries hard to see it as loving ... and not just the cat that caught the canary. She waits for him to shrug into his jacket - he sees her hands hover in the air, maybe wondering if it's too intimate to help him into the jacket like she used to.

Thankfully, she doesn't try.

He walks ahead of her down the hall, into the elevator - where he studiously watches the floor numbers tick downward - and through the lobby.

Her long legs take correspondingly long strides, so keeping half a step ahead pretty much requires him to jog.

She catches up anyway, as he exits the hospital, tucking her hand through the crook of his elbow like she used to. Once again his eyes are drawn to that hand, magnetically, and for a moment he just stares.

She's smiling when he catches sight of her face.

She always liked leaving the hospital together.

She notices his expression and the smile drops off her face.

"Derek..."

"Let's just go."

Miraculously she shuts up.

"You're driving?" She looks doubtfully at his jeep.

Of course he's driving.

He always drives.

He has no idea where they're going.

But he gets into the driver's seat anyway.

"Derek..."

She's looking at him over the gearshift. Then she leans over and kisses him on the cheek; her lips leave two burning spots on his skin. "I'm glad you didn't sign," she whispers.

He sort of wants to be glad.

Maybe.

He says nothing.

She touches the side of his face, her fingers starting to play in his hair like they did the first night. He resists the urge to slap her hand down.

"Addie …"

"Yeah?" Her eyes brighten.

"Let's, uh, let's go get coffee."

"Right." She fastens her seatbelt, pulling it out and rearranging it so it doesn't wrinkle her top. She's always done it and he used to argue with her about it, insisting it affected the seat belt's utility. Wrinkles over head trauma, that was her calculus.

"There's this place not too far, the concierge at my hotel recommended it." She pauses. "Maybe afterwards, you could -"

He cuts off her eager offer before she can finish. "No. Not today."

"Right." She stares out the side window.

"We don't have to do everything today," he says, a little annoyed.

"We didn't do anything today."

"We're getting coffee."

"Breakfast," she corrects.

"Whatever." He sighs.

"I just want to do ... something."

"Something?"

"Move forward," she says, as the ignition turns over.

"We didn't sign the papers today," he reminds her. "Doing nothing is doing something, isn't that what you said?"

"Yes, but ... it means we're going to try," she says softly. 'That's what it means, not signing. Right? That you want to try to work on our marriage?"

"Yeah ... I guess it does."

"You don't sound very sure."

Is she serious?

"I'm not very sure," he admits, hearing her sharp indrawn breath. "I'm angry," he says honestly, "and I don't know if I can ever look at you the same way. But … you're my family. So yes, I'm giving you a chance to fix it."

"We can fix it together," she says tentatively.

"I hope so."

"You do?"

Truthfully, the words popped out before he could analyze them, but he'll take a chance. "Yeah, I guess I do."

She angles her long neck and leans her head against his shoulder – just briefly, just for a moment, before he can push her away, and he feels two things: sad that her first thought was probably that he'd push her away, and … sort of wanting to push her away.

 _What kind of man am I?_

Forcing himself past the discomfort, he gives her hand a brief pat and she smiles at his touch.

"Derek..."

He feels emotion in his throat at the way she says his name. She has a thousand different ways, of course. But he can't. There's no elevator and no Bailey and he can't do this here.

"Where did you say the ... coffee place was?"

She gives him quick directions.

He looks over his shoulder, checking for cars, and then braces one hand on the headrest of the passenger seat as he prepares to back up; before his fingers make contact she's already leaned forward to keep him from pulling her hair. Lean, reach, grab. Every time, just one combination in the complex choreography of marriage.

She's looking at him, but it's ... naked, not really demanding, and he finds himself speaking.

"Last night was terrible," he says softly.

"I know. I'm so sorry." She touches him only with her eyes, and he appreciates it. "But maybe ... maybe today will be okay?"

He considers her question. "Maybe," he concedes, and then he twists his neck to see out the back window while she monitors the side, just like always.

* * *

 _End of flip. Oh. My babies._

I wanted an ambiguous end, a little progress but ambiguous bc that's what early season 2 Addek is, IMO, just like early season 3 Addek is brutal. This mix - which I realize could sort of be a deleted scene from The Climbing Way - felt right to me, bc those first few episodes of season two Derek was such a mix of vicious and rarely, surprisingly, tender ... part of what makes it so painful IMO.

It's not a perfect flip. It's more like a gentle push. It's early. It's scary. Maybe neither of them knows what they want. Addison's not far out from having an abortion and leaving Mark, even if we didn't know it then. And Addek are confused, hostile, and sad, all at once. God, I love them. They really needed more screentime. At least they can always find it in our stories.

Enjoy? More flip ideas? Addek ideas in general? Please review and let me know! Xoxo


	21. Until We Get It Right

**A/N: TGIF,** or more specifically, TGI Fluffy Friday. This is light and maybe just a wee bit dirty. No angst today, at least in this chapter. This one is for **luvaddek** , who requested a flip of the laughing, head-banging, phone-call-intercepting scene that picks up right after Derek and Addison have "the most boring sex ever." I think someone else requested it way back when too, and it makes sense, because even though the end of the episode is a major gut punch (in a ship that is like 75 percent gut punches), the beginning of the episode is a little hopeful. They're laughing together, attempting to fix it, and they're not acting like strangers. We're Addek lovers, we live off crumbs, and we can handle it. So, this is a flip of that scene. "Okay, we're going to keep doing this until we get it right," is what Derek said, and here is what they could have done ...

* * *

 **Until We Get It Right  
** _(Episode 2.23, "Blues for Sister Someone")_

* * *

"Dr. Dandridge, we're going to have to call you back," she says into the phone, ducking and weaving to keep Derek from snatching the phone. "We're trying _really_ hard to have some decent sex here."

He doesn't want to laugh.

It's _not_ funny, except he can't help laughing, the movement making her head bob where it's resting on his bare chest, because it's just so …

"What? Derek, what is so funny?"

"Addie, would you just – " He makes one last grab for the phone but she pulls it out of his grasp, then listens with a confused expression to the other end.

"He hung up," she says.

"What do you expect, Addison, he's a vet, not Dr. Ruth."

Now she starts laughing. "Well, he interrupted a very … a very …" She stops talking. "What did he say, anyway? Has Doc improved?"

"Yeah, uh, I can pick him up this morning."

 _That's true. That's not a lie._

"Oh. Good." She pushes off of him so she's leaning down over him, her long hair tickling his bare skin. "This morning like … _right now_ this morning? Or later this morning?"

Right now.

He should say _right now_ , except one of her hands is sliding over his hip, and he knows perfectly well that Addison doesn't like to give up until she gets something right. Just ask her; she can still go on and on about the problem set he stopped working on and she had to finish the whole thing by herself.

"Then aren't we going to try again?"

He touches his forehead gingerly. "I don't know if our skulls can take it."

"Derek, come on…"

"Whining isn't sexy," he scolds her.

"Neither is picking up the phone in the middle of – "

"It could have been the hospital!"

"But it wasn't." She sighs. "Okay, fine. Forget it. We'll just … call it a day. I guess that's it. No more decent sex for us."

He sits up, running a hand through his hair. "Do you really need to be so melodramatic?"

"No, it's fine. Really. It's great."

"Addison." He groans out her name. "Would you just – _wait_ a second," and he catches her wrist when she starts to swing her legs out of bed and pulls her back onto the sheets.

"It's okay, just forget it."

It takes every effort not to roll his eyes, but he's well aware that _martyrdrom isn't sexy either_ will probably just get him in further trouble. He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to forget the monotony of their rote sex, the awkwardness of the phone call, his slight irritation now. He can't be _that_ irritated, because she's still naked, and her hair is soft is loose, she's not wearing makeup – it's the Addison only he gets to see, and she's a lot harder to forget than the one everybody sees.

"Look, you're right," he says. "We used to be really good at this."

"Thanks for reminding me."

"No, I mean – it's science. We've done this before. We've done this _really well_ before."

"Okay," she says slowly. "So…?"

"So, we just have to isolate the problem, and then we can treat the problem."

She rolls over to him, propping up on her elbow. "I'm listening."

"We'll need to review the previous treatments. Why did _they_ work, and not this one?"

She frowns. "Okay. Well … we weren't in a trailer, first of all," she says, starting with the obvious.

Now he frowns. "And you hadn't slept with Mark … second of all," he points out.

"That's not true." She points a finger at him. "We had decent sex in the hotel before I moved into the trailer, and that was after Mark. More than decent. Pretty good, in fact."

"Yeah." Guilt tugs at the corners of his mind. That wasn't exactly … but she doesn't know that.

"And it wasn't – "

"It's the trailer," he interrupts her.

"What?"

"The trailer. The trailer is the problem."

"The trailer _is_ the problem." A look of amazement crosses her face. "I'm so glad to hear you say that. You know, I've scoped out some of the local architects, and – "

"No, I mean sex in the trailer. Not living in the trailer. It's a great trailer," he reminds her.

"Derek…"

"Get up," he says.

"What?"

He swings over her, managing to do it without crushing her with his weight, which is always a little bit impressive, and then pulls the covers off her.

"Hey!"

She sits up, affronted, and when she reaches for the sheets he grabs her hand instead. "Get up," he repeats, and he pulls until she's standing.

"It's not that I don't appreciate creativity," she says kindly, "but this is a trailer, Derek. We don't have a lot of options other than the bed. We could _try_ standing up." She thumps one of the walls. "But how sturdy is this thing? Because remember that student apartment where –"

She shrieks with surprise as he pulls her over to the door in one quick gesture and opens it.

"Derek, what are you – close the door right now!" She attempts to cover herself with her hands.

"I will, as soon as we're on the other side of it."

She looks down. "Are you insane? I'm _naked_."

"I know you're naked. It's not unintentional. Some of our best sex has happened when you're naked."

She looks from him to the open door, to her naked body, and back to the open door.

To the endless view of … nothing.

Not nothing.

Woods.

Leafy, prickly woods filled with … _nature._

"Close the door," she hisses.

"Come outside with me."

"Honey … it's a _very_ chilly morning."

"So we'll heat it up. Addison." He makes a move that looks worryingly like he's attempting to throw her over his shoulder and she jumps back in time to avoid it.

"Absolutely not. No. No, no, no." She folds her arms. "This is crazy."

"It's not crazy. _Boring sex_ is crazy. This? Is not crazy."

He holds out his hand again. He doesn't seem bothered that _he's_ naked.

"But, Derek … poison oak …"

"I already showed you how to find it, didn't I, after your … problem?"

She nods.

"Well, then try not to lie down in it this time. I have other plans for your – "

"Derek!" She interrupts him before has to hear the end of the sentence.

And then his arm is around her and he's towing her back to the door. It's pretty hard to avoid him when the trailer is about twelve inches wide. Damn it.

"Okay, fine!" She holds up both her hands. "I'll go … outside with you, but I'm putting on clothes first."

"Putting on clothes is not how you have decent sex."

"I have a bunch of examples to dispute that," she says mildly. "Graduation. That was clothes _and_ robes. Our engagement dinner. That time we were flying to Turks and Caicos and–"

"Come outside with me," he interrupts, "and next time we can try it your way."

She looks down at her naked body. The breeze wafting into the trailer feels fresh and clean. It's not cold exactly, but it's … cool.

Her gaze lands on her bare feet with their pink manicured toenails.

 _Choose your battles,_ that was what Savvy used to say, and it makes sense since she and Weiss are both lawyers and Addison once witnessed them spend two hours passionately debating conical coffee filters versus basket-shaped ones – with colorful exhibits _and_ sworn witnesses, Addison herself chief among them.

At any rate, it's not the worst advice. Derek must agree because he nods and that's how she finds herself escorted – _escorted_ sounds nicer than dragged – outside the trailer on an only warm _ish_ spring morning wearing nothing except green wellington boots.

"I can't believe I'm doing this. People are going to _see_ us," she hisses.

"We have no neighbors. There's no one for miles and miles around. That's the beauty of this land."

"No one can see into the garden at home," she grumbles. "And it's more convenient, and there are no wild animals."

"Actually, I'm pretty sure the building next door can see in, and the Quincys, and that new high rise they built on –"

"What?" She stops in her tracks. "You _swore_ during that hammock incident that no one could see!"

He blushes a little. "I may have been … in the moment," he admits.

"Oh my _god_. People probably have video of us and – we're probably on – " she pauses, trying to remember the name of that site her niece showed her. "That thing where you put … videos and stuff."

"Oh, _that_ thing." Derek shakes his head. "Vanity, thy name is Addison. It's not like we're _that_ photogenic."

"Yes, we are," she says smugly.

"Fine, we are."

"Well, I'm not putting on a show for Seattle."

"Seattle can't see us!"

A grey squirrel chooses that moment to sit up on its hind legs and … he hates to admit it, but it's technically staring at them.

This is not lost on Addison. Of course it's not.

"No animals, Derek, _no_ animals! Come on. It's enough that Doc likes to watch."

He snorts. "Oh, come on, Addie, that's what dogs _do._ "

"My dogs never watched!"

"Well, _pet_ dogs watch. Those … fox hunting hounds or whatever you people had when you were a kid aren't pets. They're … something else."

She's pretty sure she can hear him mumble _status symbols._

"Derek!"

"Addison, their names were even longer than yours, and that's saying something. Just ignore the squirrel," he says impatiently, "let him watch pay-per-view like the rest of the woodland creatures. We can keep walking."

"Just what I was hoping you'd say," she replies sarcastically, but she keeps pace at his side, arms folded across her chest.

"There's a clearing up ahead." He points. "Just a little further."

"But I'm freezing," she whines.

He stops to look at her. "You do look … cold," he says and when she tries to slap him in response he grabs her hand and pulls her against him.

"How are you _this_ warm when we're naked outside?" She grumbles the question but she's not actually annoyed, she's too busy appreciating the heat.

"I'm efficient."

"That's not …"

"Fine." Derek wraps the thin blanket that's been folded over his arm around her shoulders. "Better?"

"Yes," she says with dignity, or as much dignity as one can have when one is naked except for a plaid wool blanket that doesn't cover nearly enough and rubber rain boots.

"Good. Then stop whining."

"I'm not _whining_."

He just takes her free hand – she'd object, but his is so much warmer – and pulls her along behind him.

She's actually quiet for a few minutes, and then starts grousing again when the path inclines.

"Where is this clearing, Vancouver?"

"Just a little further. Come on, Addie, you pay money to a gym so you can use a machine that simulates walking. This is _free_ and beautiful and … beautiful."

"You already said that."

"Just … come on." He tugs on her hand and she follows him again, scowling.

"Here," he says finally. She's pretty certain a lifetime has passed.

"Here," she repeats dubiously.

He spreads his hands. "Look around."

"I'm looking."

It's green, and leafy, and woodsy, and … outside.

And she's still naked.

"It's … pretty," she says reluctantly, "but, Derek – "

"No phone," he says triumphantly. "No interruptions."

"But there are _squirrels._ "

"Addie, they're not watching us, for crying out – okay, fine, that one over there might be watching us."

Derek frowns at a squirrel who's holding a nut and … okay, squirrels can't smile, but there's definitely an insolent expression on its furry little face.

"Scram," Derek says. "Go. There are … a lot of acorns on the other side of the clearing, I heard."

"Are you trying to _reason with_ a squirrel?"

"How is that less logical than assuming a squirrel is hoping to make an x-rated video of us?"

"When you say it like that …"

He plucks the thin blanket from her shoulders and she yelps. "I'm cold!"

"But not for long." He raises his eyebrows and spreads the blanket out on the ground.

She can't help noticing that he doesn't look very … cold.

"Fine. But if I end up with poison oak … or poison _anything_ … then this is going to be the last time you're going to see me naked for a long, long time."

"That's okay," he says cheerily, "I already have it memorized."

"It? _It?_ " She doesn't have enough time to tell him how offended she is because he's sweeping her off her feet – literally, which she's not too cold or too annoyed to realize is pretty great – and he's gentle enough when he sets her down on the blanket to keep the hard ground from bothering her and then after that … ferocious enough to keep her so occupied that she forgets about Seattle's infestation of sex maniac squirrels.

Until she hears a distinctive crackle.

"Derek … I heard something …"

"Just tell the squirrel I'll buy it a copy of _Playrodent_ if it leaves us alone," he mutters into her hair.

"Derek!" She shoves at his chest.

"What? You're the one who told me to – wait, what's wrong?" he interrupts himself when he sees the expression on her face, withdrawing his hand.

"Derek," she whispers, fear washing over her. "I'm pretty sure I heard a bear."

"Okay, just calm down. This is completely the wrong time of year for bears."

"It's not a fucking time share, Derek, it's the middle of the woods! This is _their_ space and we're … desecrating it … oh my god." She covers her face with her hands. "I can't believe I'm going to die in the forest in horrible shoes. I must have really pissed someone off up there."

"You're not going to die. Speaking of which, I wish you'd take those horrible shoes _off_. They're chafing me." He rubs at a sore patch on his hip that's shaped almost precisely like the bottom of her boot.

She responds by grabbing him hard enough with her legs to make him yelp.

"So I'm going to die like a Bond villain, then," he mutters. "Fine … could be a lot worse."

"Derek, you have to _do_ something," she hisses.

"I _was_ doing something, and you seemed to be enjoying it, but you interrupted my rhythm."

"Not something like that, something to protect us from the – " She pauses and then covers her mouth to muffle her whimper when the sounds happens again. "Derek…"

He looks serious now. "That time I heard it too."

"What are we going to do?" She digs nervous fingers into his arms. "Derek?"

"Just … stay calm," he tells her.

"That's easy for you to say, the bear is obviously going to go for me first."

"Why, because you're prettier?"

"No. But thank you," she says sincerely, knowing that's not necessarily easy for Derek to admit. "Because I'm smaller, and – excuse me," she says sharply when he looks confused, "are you calling me fat?"

"Yes. That's exactly what I'm doing. You're so on point … as always." He shakes his head. "Look, can we just stay focused here?"

"On what? Our imminent doom?"

"Well … yes." He sits up and hauls her against him, listening closely.

And he hears it again.

He curses softly and she shudders against him.

" _Derek_ ," she whispers into his neck, panicked.

"I know, I know, just … stay still."

"It's not a bumblebee!"

"Fine, then go charge it. Good luck with that."

She pinches him and he pinches her back, and then she wraps her arms tightly around him. "We're going to die," she moans.

"No we're not," he says, not sounding entirely confident.

The sound is getting louder. Heavy steps. Coming closer.

A branch crackles and she shrieks; he holds her close. "We're not going to die," he repeats. "Look, you just sit here stay still and I'll go distract it. Maybe it'll get tired after … that."

"No!" She hangs onto him. "I'm not going to let you be … bear bait."

"Well, I'm not going to let you be eaten."

For a moment they just hold each other tightly, eyes squeezed shut.

"Derek," she says urgently, "before we … I mean I just need to tell you that …"

The sound is louder. Maybe it's too late to be bait.

"I know. I love you too," he says into her hair, eyes still closed, "and I'm sorry I dragged you out into the – "

"Hi there, folks."

They jump apart so quickly their heads bang into each other's … for the second time that morning.

Once they stop seeing stars, they look up to see see a tall man in mirrored sunglasses, wearing an olive windbreaker, a tan ranger hat, and very similar boots to the ones that are currently the only thing on Addison's body.

There's a moment of chaotic fumbling where Derek and Addison are both trying to stand and trying to cover themselves and each other; finally, Addison yanks the plaid blanket off the ground and wraps it around herself – she can't cover _everything,_ but at least something is better than nothing.

"Hi," she says once she's somewhat covered, trying to ignore the fact that Derek is wearing nothing but folded hands that aren't doing much to hid anything. He steps behind her with a dark look. Addison smiles as pleasantly as she can. "What can we do for you, um … officer?"

The ranger frowns. "Are you aware that this is state-owned land?"

"State owned," Addison hisses, turning to Derek. "I thought _you_ owned it."

"I do. I mean, up to a – certain point …" He looks helplessly at the park ranger.

"Oh, you're that New Yorker who moved in! Welcome," he says, sounding a little warmer.

"He's not a New Yorker anymore," Addison grouses. "He's a flannel-wearing, wood-chopping – ow!" She rubs the spot where Derek pinched her.

"I didn't realize we'd gone past the property line," Derek says with as much dignity as a naked man hiding behind his half naked wife can summon.

"Well, you did. This land has a conservation order on it," the park ranger says, frowning. "It's a violation to enter without a park pass. I don't suppose you have a park pass."

"Not exactly," he admits.

"And it's a misdemeanor … class C … to desecrate park land."

"We didn't desecrate it!" Addison protests. "Not yet, anyway," she mutters for Derek's benefit, neatly sidestepping his pinch.

He frowns at Addison. "Are you a professional?"

"Yes, I am." She stands up a little straighter. Maybe he saw the article in the _Seattle Dispatch_ about the hospitals new neonatal wing. She and the photographer argued about the wind machine, but in the end she's pretty sure everyone was happy.

"Addison," Derek says behind her. "I don't think – "

"And as a professional," she speaks over Derek, "I'm sure you can let it slide this once?"

"I'm not going to arrest you," the park ranger says earnestly. "I do think you should make some different choices."

"Like not choosing him," Addison mutters darkly, tossing a glare at Derek over one bare shoulder.

"Exactly. We can help you. There are programs – "

"Listen," Derek interrupts hastily, "it's not what you think."

" _You_ pipe down back there, John."

"His name isn't John," Addison says distractedly. "Derek, stop pulling my – _oh_. No, no! I'm not that kind of professional."

He doesn't look convinced.

"I'm a surgeon. A world-renowned surgeon," she says primly, picking a foot-long twig out of her hair. "Do I _look_ like a prostitute?" She pauses. "Don't answer that."

"Can you just shut up," Derek mutters behind her.

" _You_ shut up! You're the one who got us into this."

" _You're_ the one who decided to tell the ranger you're a prostitute," he hisses.

" _You're_ the one who thought sex in the woods was a good idea!"

"Well, _you're_ the one who – "

"Say no more," the ranger interrupts, holding up a hand. "I didn't realize you two were married."

Addison has a feeling she should be insulted by that comment, but she's too annoyed to work out why.

"It's true," Derek says gravely. "We've been married for eleven years. And we were just trying to –"

"Don't you dare," Addison interrupts, turning around to glare at him.

"Addison, the man needs to know."

" _Don't,_ Derek, I swear, if you say it then this morning's boring sex will be the last time you see me naked for at least a decade and we'll _never_ have decent sex!"

He stops talking.

She frowns. That seems too easy.

"So you're not going to tell him," she says slowly.

"I don't have to." Derek holds his palms up innocently. "You just did."

Oh, she's going to kill him. She settles for shoving him with both hands, which makes the blanket drop.

Fuck.

Hastily covering herself up again, she stands up to her full height. "Officer – I mean Ranger – "

"I've been married fourteen years," the ranger interrupts. "Say no more. I know how important it is to keep things fresh. For anniversary last year, we – well, let's say we … celebrated."

"Really?" Derek peers out from behind Addison.

The ranger nods, then beckons Derek, who gives Addison a little push and approaches him.

"You know what I've found." He looks at Derek, then leans over to say something to him Addison can't hear.

"Really?" Derek raises his eyebrows. "And that's legal in Washington?"

He nods, then says something else Addison can't hear.

"Ohhh." Derek lifts both hands in front of him, moving them slightly as if he's trying to picture something. "You go right _first_? Hmm."

"But only after the – "

"Derek." She tries to get his attention, but the park ranger is muttering something else to him.

"I like that idea. But I don't know where I'd buy one of those, though," Derek muses. "Plus, she's allergic to – "

"Derek! Do you mind?" She wraps the blanket tighter around her.

"Not at all."

"Are we free to go?" She aims her question pointedly at the ranger, who nods.

She doesn't speak to Derek for the entire walk back to the trailer, but she does stay behind him, enjoying the bootprint on his hip that's really _his_ fault.

"Can we go inside?" She pauses as the approach the trailer. "Or do you have any other bright ideas?"

"Excuse me for trying to liven things up."

"You almost _livened_ us all the way to jail."

"Just … go inside," he sighs, opening the door.

She drops the blanket on the floor of the trailer, not minding – okay, maybe even liking – that it's muddy and grassy from their jaunt.

But then again, so is she.

"I need a shower," she groans. "I never even got my decent sex and I'm filthy anyway."

"Stop complaining about everything." He turns the shower on for her.

"Then give me something _not_ to complain about!"

He raises his eyebrows and for a moment she thinks he's going to yell at her.

Then her back hits the back of the shower, his lips capture hers while hot water streams around them, and she stops thinking anything at all.

…

She leans down to smile at him when they pause for a breath, trying her best to keep the thigh wrapped around his waist from irritating the bootprint she left on him earlier. "This is nice."

"Yeah, it is." He tangles a hand in her wet hair and pulls her down for another kiss. The water stopped being hot a while back but there's enough steam to keep them warm, the heat of her around him is practically enough to scorch and she's not cold either with his hands supporting her weight and pulling her against his body.

The next time she speaks it's just his name, and she's this close to scalping him, but he can't complain.

He'd almost forgotten how well they fit together; their matched heights make them into puzzle pieces – _dirty puzzle pieces,_ she said once, laughing – because every soft curve of her body fits perfectly against one of the hard planes of his, her narrower hips are tucked neatly against his, the long muscles of her thighs mean she can half support herself while he does the rest.

And _the rest_ ends in a loud cry from her and a self-satisfied groan from him, as she throws her head back …

Directly into the shower wall.

She's half-cursing and half-laughing.

"I think I have a concussion."

"Nope." He's been rubbing the back of her head, soothing the bump, and he checks her pupils to humor her. A little dilated, but they both know why. "You're fine."

"Fine. But you have to make it up to me."

"Didn't I just – fine," he says with dignity. "I was planning on it anyway, actually."

He can see her lips pursing for a retort, so he makes sure she's sufficiently distracted.

…

"Derek," she says the next time they pause, and he's helping her to her feet while apologizing silently to all the deities whose names he just took in vain. "Derek … why didn't you just suggest this in the first place?"

She gestures at the shower.

He's brushing wet hair out of her face with surprising tenderness; her cheeks feel cold. Damn trailer plumbing. "

"Because it's a _very_ small shower," he reminds her.

"Not too small, though."

"No. Not too small."

"We could have just started out with this," Addison says, resting her head against his shoulder while she catches his breath. "No woods, no park ranger, no twigs in my – "

"But we didn't," Derek says. "We started with that. And now we're here."

"Because we never make things easy for ourselves," Addison muses.

"Or for each other," he adds.

She nods, contemplating this while he massages her cramped hamstrings.

"Derek…"

"Yeah, Addie."

"Some of the best things aren't easy – don't you dare turn that into a double entendre."

"I wasn't going to," Derek assures her.

"Really?"

"No," he admits. "I was going to."

"All I was saying," she continues with dignity, "is that I don't mind that you're hard – oh come _on,_ Derek, grow up, we're almost forty!"

"We're old," he says mournfully, propping himself up on the shower wall and pulling her against him.

She wraps wet arms around his waist. "Speak for yourself."

"You're two months older," he reminds her.

"Shut up."

"You shut up."

They both shut up, finding better things to do with their mouths than bicker.

…

Their positions now are reminiscent of earlier that morning – except they're not fighting over the phone. Derek's pretty sure they're too depleted to fight over anything at this point. Her head is resting on his bare chest, long red hair spread out over his shoulders and, despite his best attempts to tame it, tickling his neck. He's drawing lazy circles on her spine, enjoying the way her body shifts a little to welcome his touch.

"See?" Her voice is muffled, and she kisses the skin closest to her lips. "Indoors. Decent sex, _indoors_ , Derek."

"Decent?" He stills his fingers. "That was more than decent."

"Fine, it was good."

" _Good._ " He frowns, pushing on her shoulders. "It was _really_ good, and you know it."

"It was … good." She smirks and tries to lie back down on him but he holds her off.

"Oh, I don't think so. Admit it, or you can find a non-human pillow."

"You _know_ it was really good, honey, I just could have lived without the … nature walk, first."

"The nature walk was great."

"And the park ranger," she adds.

"Yeah, that might have been … less great. But I'm still glad we ran into him. Otherwise I wouldn't have gotten the idea for the thing."

"The thing …" She furrows her brow. "The thing in the shower with the – "

He nods.

"That was the _park ranger's_ idea? Derek!"

"What? You seemed to like it."

"I never said I liked it."

"Well … you didn't have to _say_ it…"

"Derek!"

"Addie, you _said_ you wanted to have decent sex."

"With you! Without any state employees involved!"

" _That_ is elitist." He frowns.

"What? How can you – Derek," she starts huffily, propping herself up on her elbows to suggest she's winding up for a long speech.

So he leans in to kiss her before she can finish … and she kisses him back … and he pulls her down on top of him … and she lets him.

Because they both know there's only one thing that's better than finally having really good sex.

And that's having _more_ really good sex.

* * *

... _with that under their belts (so to speak) maybe they could have been in a place to share their respective terrible days with each other and have actually hot shower sex instead of angry, depressing shower sex at the end of the episode. And I realize I am making a habit of writing Derek and Addison and sex in inappropriate places but I can't help it - there's something about them that just makes me think that was their thing. PSA: Writing is fun, and I enjoy it, but I share it because I want you to enjoy it and I want to know what you think. So let me know. Don't make writers whose work you enjoy beg for reviews! (We'll do it, but we'll be mad, 'cause we don't know you that well :) )_


	22. Celibacy

**A/N: Hiiiii.** It's been ages since I've flipped a script, but I'm feeling some kinda way about Addek and need to feel my feelings. Those of you who follow my other Addek stories, I promise I'm very close to updating Some Bright Morning and The Climbing Way is next on the list. But this flip - requested by an anon, thank you anon! - picks up during the bar scene in "The Name of the Game." This scene is everything that loving Addek is: awesome if you look closely ... and over before you know it. It's Meredith's knitting-a-sweater speech, and Addison's disbelief in her sobriety/celibacy. Addison walks away when Meredith mentions Mark, and goes to sit at a little table. Then Meredith and Derek talk a bit. And then normal people probably just stopped watching, because the scene faded out. **But wait. We are not normal. We have a sixth Addek sense.** Because if you look past the ending closeup on Ellen P's pretty face (and god, she was young in that episode), you see the blurry-out-focus proof that Derek went back over to Addison's little table, sat down next to her, and then _turned to her and said something._ And she drank her drink (and it looked like scotch) and they were all ... interact-y and couple-y and Derek didn't look like he was being tortured. (Okay, it was blurry, but you get my point.) All this is to say, thanks for the prompt, anon. I hope you'll let me know what you think of your result!

So, let's head over to Joe's way way back in Season 2.

* * *

 **Celibacy  
** _(2.22, "The Name of the Game")_

* * *

Meredith is sitting at the bar ... not drinking ... when Derek approaches.

"I'm practicing celibacy," she explains, "and drinking does not go well with celibacy."

"Celibacy? You?" Addison joins them, covering her doubtful tone with innocence when Derek frowns at her. "I'm just asking because we're friends."

"Every man I meet is either married," Meredith begins.

"Ooh, ouch." Derek winces.

"Or Mark," she adds.

Now it's Addison's turn to wince. "Okay, I'm going over there now," she says, heading for the small table they've been sharing.

When he returns to join her she's sipping from a tumbler of scotch

"You're drinking my drink." He nods toward the table.

"It's my drink."

"It's your _glass_ ," he corrects her, "but it's my drink."

"You didn't invent scotch, Derek." She smirks at him over the rim of the glass. "You may be good … but you're not that good."

He leans back in his chair, amused in spite of himself. See, this is why giving up drinking is a bad idea. Well. Tonight he's working his way slowly through only half a drink himself – and chasing it with water; he still has to drive, after all.

But despite the kernel of truth to what Meredith said about drinking making everything _porny_ … it just makes everything a little nicer. A little easier. At least in his opinion.

Addison nudges him lightly with her shoulder. "What are you thinking about?"

Oh, such an _Addison_ question. In the early days he found that question adorable, and a sign of how much she loved him, that she always wanted to know. Later, it started to seem intrusive, even manipulative.

 _Whose fault was that?_

He doesn't answer his own question, since there's enough blame to go around … and for some reason, whether it's the half scotch or the generally relaxed atmosphere of the bar, or Addison's choice of hairstyle today – straight and flat, the way she liked to wear it in the first few years of their marriage – he doesn't feel particularly like parceling blame, or even like brooding.

When he glances at Addison she looks pensive, bottom lip caught between her teeth, both thumbs tracing patterns over the condensation on her glass. Addison's hands have to be doing something; she's always touching _something_ – him, often, even if it's less often now, or whatever's close, testing the surfaces of things, opening and reopening and clicking and pressing. She's rarely still.

"What am I thinking about?" He repeats her question.

"You don't have to answer that," she says quickly, one of her hands leaving the glass to start twisting shapes out of a paper napkin.

"I'll answer it."

"Okay." She tilts her chin slightly, a challenge, and then lifts her glass to take a sip. "Go ahead."

"I'm thinking that practicing celibacy … is a terrible idea."

She laughs and then coughs with surprise, nearly losing her mouthful of scotch, having to bring a sheaf of napkins to her lips with more urgency than etiquette. He can't help smiling as he watches her gather herself. There's something about Addison's perfectly groomed public persona that makes it amusing when that perfection slips. Even the She-Shepherd can be felled by a spit take.

Well … a near spit take. Addison, of course, came through at the last minute.

"Are you trying to kill me?"

"No." Derek frowns. "There are much easier ways to do that."

"Lovely. I think I remember that one from our wedding vows."

He brushes a stray drop of amber liquid from the corner of her mouth with his thumb. "You missed some."

"Thanks," she says, tone heavy with sarcasm, but she gives him a little smile. "I know you're not actually trying to kill me," she adds.

"I'm relieved to hear that."

"Two months ago … even a month ago … maybe I wouldn't be so sure."

"Calculating your risk of homicide." He studies her face for a moment. She's half-smiling. "You are a scientist."

"Yeah." She twists a damp napkin into something resembling a swan. "It crosses a girl's mind when you make her live out in the middle of the woods."

There are a few retorts that rise to the front of his mind, the first teasing her at calling her nearly-forty, dual-degreed, ridiculously accomplished self a _girl_.

And the second disbelief that the _woman_ who dragged two suitcases that cost nearly as much as the not-cheap trailer itself to his little front porch and told him _enough is enough, no more hotel,_ while he folded his arms and scowled could possibly describe that reentry into cohabitation as his _making_ her live in the woods.

"That's just one of the many perks of living … out in the middle of the woods," he says lightly.

She looks like she's about to say something, but then stops, glancing at the bar and then back to him. "So you think celibacy is a terrible idea?"

"I do."

"For her, or for you?"

"For anyone." He takes a small sip of his own drink.

Her hand has found his thigh under the table and now it's his turn to nearly spit out his drink. " _Addison_."

"What?" She's looking at him wide-eyed; he's nearly forgotten her rather disturbing ability to keep her face as innocent as an angel's while the rest of her –

"Addie, cut it out," he hisses, shooting a quick nervous glance at the rest of the bar. They all seemed distracted either by drinks, companions, or the game on TV.

"I thought you were against celibacy," she frowns, stilling her hand but leaving it on his leg.

"I am against celibacy. I'm also against exhibitionism." He takes her hand in his and moves it back to the table, but for some reason he doesn't let go, finding himself playing idly with her fingers instead. It's her right hand – of course it's her right hand, though if pressed he'd have to admit surgical dexterity means Addison can do impressively … intricate things with her non-dominant hand as well.

She wears no rings on this hand, but there's a thin gold bangle around her wrist that he bought for her years ago. He can remember her face when she opened it: surprise that she actually liked it … and disappointment that it was too small. She insisted on wearing it anyway, only agreeing to take it off when Derek suggested she might be compressing a nerve that might compromise her fellowship. She assured him he had excellent taste in jewelry. _I just don't have excellent taste in having dainty hands,_ she frowned, and he laughed then, grasping both of her hands – the same length as his. _Your hands are perfect,_ he told her, and he kissed the angry red mark on the inside of her admittedly sturdy-boned wrist. She begged him not to return the bracelet and they finally compromised with his figuring out a way to make it bigger. One of his cohort recommended a jeweler to help him, and he ended up paying more than he did for the original bangle to install a longer catch that would increase the bracelet's circumference. _So much for affording a down payment,_ that was his first thought, but then it disappeared when Addison was thrilled at the revision to his gift. She flung her arms around his neck to thank him and that was the first of many times the bangle would clip him just under the ear mid-embrace. He used to tease her that he had a permanent bruise there.

He hasn't realized she brought the bracelet with her to Seattle. She didn't wear it every day; other than her wedding rings, Addison didn't wear _anything_ every day, and with good reason, considering the many options she had from one vast closet to another. He slips a finger under the extended catch and hears her indrawn breath.

When he looks up she's looking down again, at the bracelet. He rubs his thumb along her wrist, catching her attention, but when she looks up, he's not sure what to say.

 _I didn't know you brought this with you._ But what's the point of that?

 _You're wearing this, and I still won't wear my ring._

But she's well aware of that. No need to rub it in.

He sighs. "Nice bracelet," he says, in lieu of anything more meaningful.

She smiles a little. "My husband has excellent taste in jewelry."

"He sounds like quite a catch."

"That's because you haven't heard the rest of – Derek!" She makes a noise that's mostly a squeal as he tugs on their joined hands and uses his free one to find the spot on her ribs that will make clear what he thinks of her comment.

Luckily, her cry coincides with a cheer from the people at the bar. Something must have happened in the game he hasn't been watching.

Primly, Addison gathers herself, straightening her already perfect collar and then sipping her drink. He can't help smiling at the expression on her face.

Another cheer rises from the rest of the bar.

"Hey … Addie." He nudges her with his shoulder.

"What?"

"I'll buy your drink for you if you can tell me what sport they're playing."

"You already bought my drink for me."

"Then you won't have to reimburse me if you can tell me what sport they're playing."

"You're so generous." She takes a long sip of her drink. "How about I don't tell the bar you have zero interest in Seattle-based sports teams, and you buy me another round?"

He considers this. "You really want another?"

She shrugs. "You're driving."

"I'm driving … and I'm buying, too. How did I draw the short straw twice?"

"Because you drew the long one when you married me," she says, lifting an eyebrow, and it's so very Addison that he almost forgets that joking about marriage has been semi- _verboten_ since they started trying to repair their shaky one.

For some reason, it doesn't bother him. He tosses off a teasing remark about her modesty like he would have before all this, and brushes her arm when he stands up to get her another drink.

Meredith is still at the bar, knitting, when he gets there.

"Another one for you?" Joe nods at him.

"For the other Dr. Shepherd."

"Ah." He nods. "Put it on your tab?"

"Put it on my tab," he confirms, glancing at Meredith while he waits for the drink. "How's the knitting coming?"

"It's coming." She frowns. "I think I dropped a stitch. I don't actually know what _dropped a stitch_ means, but Izzie said that's my problem." She pauses. "Dropping stitches is actually the least of my problems, though, when you think about it. Whatever _dropping a stitch_ means."

"It's when you let go of the yarn before you're supposed to, and it slips back down into what you've already –" He pauses at her look up surprise. "And you end up with holes in your sweater," he finishes. "Why are you staring at me?"

"Why are you talking about knitting?" Meredith counters.

"Because you're knitting a sweater."

"I mean why _can_ you talk about knitting?"

"Oh." Derek shrugs. "My mother is a knitter. Made all our sweaters when we were kids. Hats too."

"Did they have holes in them?"

"No."

"Figures." Meredith glances back at her knitting. "If I could give up one thing – no, you know what? Never mind."

"Okay." He takes the glass. "Meredith – "

"No, go away." She gestures at him with one of her knitting needles. "I mean, go away _please_ , because I'm not drinking, and you're kind of like alcohol."

"I am?"

"You make me do stupid things. I need to be celibate of _you_ , I think."

"Okay," he says again. "Well. Good luck with the … knitting thing."

"Thanks," she says. "Good luck with the … marriage thing. I hope you're better at it than I am at knitting."

Frankly … he hopes so too.

"How's Meredith?" Addison asks as soon as he pulls out his chair, and before he can sit down next to her. He decides he needs a sip of her drink before answering.

"I'm asking because we're all friends."

"Give it a rest," he tells her, and his tone isn't harsh but she looks hurt anyway. So much for their relaxed evening. "Addison."

"Forget it." She takes the drink from him.

" _Addison._ " He takes the drink out of her hand and sets it on the table. "Meredith is fine. Meredith … is celibate."

"Then she's definitely not fine." Addison reaches past him for her drink and takes a long swallow.

"Yes, we all know _your_ position on celibacy," he can't help muttering.

Wordlessly, she hands him her drink; he takes a sip and then sets it back down.

"Better?" Addison asks.

He nods.

"Nothing like a cheap shot to cheer you up," she adds.

He lets it go, and so does she – a miracle, a moment in step, another cheer from the bar patrons when something happens onscreen.

"Don't ask," she says before he can tease her, "the point is, it's good news. And good news … is good."

"Well." He takes a sip from his water glass. "I can't exactly argue with that."

"I'm shocked," she mutters, but when she looks over at him she's smiling, and he smiles back, nudging her a little with the shoulder closest to hers. She nudges him back, a brief moment of shared pressure between them.

…

She's quiet in the car – a call to a resident takes up some of the time anyway – and on the ferry she waits until the foghorn has sounded its long sad tune before she turns to him.

"As commutes go … this isn't too bad."

"The designated driver probably helps." He smiles at her. "But I agree. Wait." He puts up a hand.

"What's wrong?"

"Did you just say something … _nice_ … about Seattle?"

"I say nice things about Seattle!"

"Give me one example," he challenges her.

"Does the thing I said just now count?"

He can't make out much of her face under the low lights, but her tone is purposefully innocent.

"It doesn't count."

"Well, I also said I liked the trees."

"When?"

"The other day."

"Even if you did," he counters, "that's the most generic possible thing to like. Do you also like Paris in the springtime? Long walks on the beach?"

"As a matter of fact … yes, and yes," she responds primly.

That's true. He can attest to both from experience.

She tucks her hand into his arm, moving closer. "I'm cold," she shrugs when he glances at her.

"It's the dampness. It gets into your – you need a while to get used to it," he says.

"Did you just say something … _not nice_ about Seattle? As if it's a real city and not just the geographic expression of your mid-life crisis?"

"Addison."

"I'm just asking!"

"Seattle is great. I love Seattle. Do you want me to pretend I don't?"

"No," she admits.

"Seattle has flaws. Everything has flaws." He pauses. "I have to do more to my hair here."

"Really?" She leans away from him, apparently studying the top of his head. "I didn't think you _could_ do more to your hair."

Some of the sting comes out of her words when she slides her fingers into it.

 _Your hair is different._

He lets her.

 _A lot of things are different._

"It doesn't feel too bad," she says.

"So generous. Thank you." He pulls her a little closer, and when he feels the shift in her muscles suggesting she's about to ask him why, he says, "I guess I'm cold too."

She doesn't respond, but she does rest her head against his shoulder. They're still standing that way when the ferry docks at Bainbridge.

…

He's halfway into the cabinet, trying to decide if another drink will help or hinder his sleep, when he hears the rustling that announces Addison's approach across the small space in slippery silk pajamas.

There's just a … _sound_ they make, and once he told her she should never rob a bank in them. It was a long time ago, and it led to a surprisingly serious few minutes of discussion about the right clothes to wear when robbing a bank – and then it led to a not-very-serious longer series of minutes when the image of Addison in black cat suit and knee-high boots proved too much for him.

"You want one?" He asks without turning around, assuming that's why she's walking toward him.

"No. I want to show you something."

"Oh." He withdraws his head. "What is it?"

She hands him a folded paper; unfolding it produces a large broadsheet covered in a sketch … of a house.

It's detailed, rooms and even fixtures marked off, but it's clearly been drawn by an amateur hand – probably anyone could tell that – and that hand belongs to his wife, which maybe only he could tell.

He turns to her. "You drew up plans?"

"I drew up plans." She tilts her head, looking at him. "All this land … these _trees_ ," and he recalls that argument what feels like forever ago, her ponytail swinging with outrage, "and we're living in a shoebox. And not even the good kind."

"Addison." He glances at the sketch. He doesn't have to look closely to see she's given herself a closet twice as big as his, but that's just sensible. The porch is expansive, the layout is …

"Did you run this by a professional?"

"No." She looks at him. "Why?"

"Because," He sits down, "while you are obviously brilliant at most things, when it comes to structural plans, I think you'd have to admit – "

"Oh, would you _stop_ with that. It was years ago. And it could have happened to anyone."

It didn't, of course. It happened to Addison, who insisted on designing every part of the intricate closet system they installed in the summer house. She and the decorator went back and forth with increasing – and politely masked – hostility, he recalls, until finally the decorator gave in.

Next to give in was the closet system, which tumbled apart mere weeks into its existence. No one was hurt, not even a single pair of Addison's ridiculously expensive shoes, so they could laugh about it. Well, they could laugh about it after Addison stormed off to drink a bottle of wine on the beach and sulk.

(Which might have been partly his fault, since he might have suggested they take advantage of the piles of soft clothing on the hardwood floor to christen a new part of the house.)

He found her sitting in an orange kayak, drinking and scowling as the waves pounded the shore; it was a two-man, so he had to sit behind her to join her, but that allowed him to massage her tense shoulders and remind her that no one is good at everything in the world. He couldn't see her face so he never knew exactly when she stopped scowling, but considering they ended that evening … _not celibate_ , she must have forgiven him at some point.

Briefly, he wonders what happened to that kayak. Was it even theirs?

He glances at Addison. "We're not going to build anything an actual architect hasn't approved," he tells her firmly, because although their acrobatic experience in the kayak was memorable in many ways … it's still not worth having a poorly planned house collapse around them.

"We're not going to build anything at all, isn't that what you mean?" She tosses down the plans; they float to the floor of the trailer. "You'd rather stay in this tin can forever so you can keep punishing me."

"Addison …"

"No, forget it. It's great. It's perfect. I've always wanted to be able to be able to turn on the stove from the shower."

He massages his temples. God, she's passive-aggressive sometimes.

"You know, Derek, for someone who doesn't even _like_ me, you don't seem particularly invested in living somewhere we can actually get space from each other."

He frowns. "Who says I don't like you?"

" _You_ do, Derek. You say it all the time."

"When do I say it?"

"You say it when you look at me … and when you don't … and when you can't name one single thing about me you still like … and when you ignore – stop it, what are you doing?"

Presumably she's stopped complaining to ask that question because he's pulled her down beside him and swept the curtain of long, straight hair aside so he can kiss the smooth skin of her neck.

"Not ignoring you," he says.

"Derek." She pulls back. "Sex doesn't solve everything."

"I know that." He moves a lock of hair off her shoulder. "Still not a fan of celibacy, though."

She smiles a little in spite of herself. "And I'm still not a fan of trailers."

"Noted."

"I'm not living in this tin can forever – Derek, are you listening to me?"

He is.

Well, sort of. He's busied himself with the curve of her shoulder she used to complain was too muscular. It took all his convincing to get her not to give away the red halter sundress she was wearing the day he proposed. They asked a stranger to snap a picture and when she saw it, after she cried – of course she cried – she complained about her _man shoulders._ He attached the photo to the fridge of their still-modest apartment; they made love on the kitchen floor with their own grinning, celebratory faces looking down on them.

Her left hand was never bare after that day.

"Derek."

"Addie." He draws back to look at her. "Were you planning to build that house right now?"

She glances down at her half-unbuttoned pajama top. "No."

"Then can talking about it wait?"

"I don't know." She fusses with the hem of the cuff at her wrist. "Can we actually talk about it?"

He stills her hand with his. "I think we actually can."

The corner of her mouth twitches, and there's doubt in her eyes.

"I'm not opposed to building a house," he says carefully, "or rather … I'm not opposed to someone who knows what they're doing building a house."

"Really?"

"Really. I did buy all this land."

" _We_ bought all this land, Derek. If you'd signed the papers … it would be half mine."

"Half yours." He shakes his head. "How would that worked in practice? Divorced, sharing the land?"

"Oh, it could have worked. We could have divided the plots and built two houses. And not shared anything." She smiles a little. "The divorced Hatfields and McCoys."

It's amusing, but he feels sadder than he would have predicted to think of dividing up all their joint property. That's what they would have had to do, if he'd signed, he realizes this. Split the brownstone and the summer house in the Hamptons and – those are just shells, though, walls around their lives. Splitting up the insides of them … is hard to picture.

Eleven years of marriage, thirteen of cohabitation, adds up to a jumble of shared lives from basement to attic, duct-taped boxes of medical school textbooks, stuffy china from their wedding that they never bothered to unwrap, the space heater they used to argue over in their first student apartment because Addison was convinced it would burn the place down. And that's just storage. Everything in the rest of the brownstone, from the framed wedding portrait in the dining room to the cow-shaped cream pitcher his mother gave them when they bought their first place, which Addison valiantly displayed from kitchen to kitchen even as their surroundings grew more luxurious, was a testament to their shared past.

The black rubber utility flashlight stored directly by the basement steps isn't just a convenience, it's the safety blanket Addison's insisted on since the '92 quake, the first year they lived together, the one that proved its worth later during the surprise blackout a couple of years ago. And it's the guide he depends on to check the basement for water seepage after every storm. He knows every contour of its nubbly surface and with every expensive piece of furniture and cutlery, every framed picture, for some reason it's the idea of figuring out who'd get the flashlight that stumps him.

Then the flashlight and the natural disasters it's aimed at countering are the last thing on his mind, because Addison is moving closer and threading her hands into his hair, her lips are on his, and he's responding, pushing silky fabric aside to reach silkier skin.

After a decade and a half there's no need for words, or for light; they can find their way in the dark over geography they've memorized and perfected over the years. He maps her through satin that gives way to more satin; she traverses the muscles of his back with fingertips more familiar than his own. He lets himself drown in sensation, remembering the benefits of stopping at one drink: his nerves on alert, his skin alive, his muscles obedient to desire.

He's still catching his breath when Addison nudges him gently with the chin tucked agains this chest, her words bringing him back to reality.

"So … two houses?"

"I said I'm not opposed to building _a_ house," he corrects her.

"Oh. Does that mean I can live in it too?" She asks it lightly, as if she's teasing, but there's hurt underlying her tone.

"You can live in it too." He pauses. "We're keeping the trailer, though."

"That's fine, as long as I never have to set foot in it."

"With that attitude, you certainly won't be getting an invitation." He drags his fingers through her long hair.

Gooseflesh rises under his hand as he strokes her back. "Cold?" He starts to sit up to get a blanket and she stops him.

"Don't get up."

"You're shivering."

"I'm cold," she admits.

"Then let me get a blanket."

"Why don't you use your imagination instead?"

He smirks. "I thought you said sex doesn't solve everything."

"It doesn't. It solves _some_ things."

"Like hypothermia?"

"There you go." She pulls him down until he's mostly on top of her.

"Derek …"

"Yeah?"

"When we build our house … "

 _When_ , she says, not _if_.

 _Our_ , she says. _Our house._

" … we really need a bigger bed."

* * *

 _... and, flip. God, I love these two. Their history makes me cry. How about you? And now back to my other WIPs. I hate to beg for reviews, but no, I don't, let's be real. So please review, because ... my fingers are tired. Thank you! xoxo_


	23. We Agree on Some Things

**A/N:** _Super busy right now, so this seems like the perfect time for an insanely long, indulgent Addek free-write. This flip is based on **Emk8** 's awesome offline suggestion, but it went a different way, so I still reserve the right to write something that's more her prompt. But she suggested picking up from "Staring at the Sun," where Addison and Derek give hilariously self-involved "advice," together, to a separated Richard. If you're a fan of Grey's outtakes, then you'll also recognize the scene as the one in which someone offscreen (director?) tells Kate and Patrick to stand closer and they squish their faces together and ask if that's close enough. Precious cinnamon rolls! The actual scene is both adorable and incredibly sad (aka Addek defined). Their banter in Richard's office was classic Shonda wordplay and showed how well they knew each other, and Richard's "just ... stop ... helping me!" was perfect. 3.08 is also the episode where a ton of other Addek nuggets happen: Derek tells Addison to use soap, because it's "slippery," and Addek fans the world over gnash their teeth; Derek has some of his worst, most unnecessarily nasty lines to an obviously still hurting Addison: ("Being separated from your wife doesn't usually make a person giddy. Except in my case.") I wanted to pick up on that, and I at first envisioned heavy angst but somehow it became something different - maybe because I don't think I've explored enough (and god knows the show never explored) how awkward it was for both Shepherds post divorce in the same workplace. Remember when Meredith called Addison Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd? She can't have been the only one. So maybe that was happening. And maybe Addison and Derek left Richard's office together and continued to be ... well, self-congratulatory in the way only Addek can. So here's a nice, short, crazy long flip, from the point of view of our favorite semi-deluded, rather self-involved surgeon. Enjoy._

* * *

 **We Agree on Some Things (We Agree on This)  
** _(3.08, "Staring at the Sun")_

* * *

"I think we helped him," Addison says tentatively.

"I know we did," Derek says with confidence.

"See how much more we can accomplish if we're civil."

"I do see that." He checks the time. "I should …"

"Right," Addison nods. "So … have a, uh, you know, a productive day."

"A productive day." He raises his eyebrows. "You too, Addison. Keep those babies coming."

"You do know I do more than deliver babies, right?"

"I do. But that's the part that works best for the, you know," he gestures with his hand, "productivity."

He can tell she's trying not to smile. "Right," she says again. "Okay. So, thanks."

He nods, turning on his heel.

He takes a moment to be impressed with both of them. Here they are, so mature, so able to put aside their differences and get along like the friends they once were – all to help another friend. It's not just impressive. It's altruistic. It's … remarkable, really.

"Derek?"

He turns around at her voice, benevolent smile at the ready. Maybe another member of the hospital's staff needs their intervention after how successful they were with Richard, and he's actually willing to entertain the thought.

He moves a few steps closer. "Yes, Addison?"

She smiles fully at him. Just with her mouth, though. "You are the most _arrogant_ , self-righteous ass I have ever had the pleasure to know."

He blinks, confused. "Wh- what are you talking about?"

"I just thought you should know."

And she turns around and walks away.

…

At first, he simply stares as she clicks away down the hall – no, clacks. Well, click- _clack_ , always the same rhythm, her lab coat billowing out behind her.

 _Click-clack._

His lab coat doesn't billow like that, and they're exactly the same.

Well, not exactly the same, because he's tried to shrug into the wrong one before when they've had to dress hastily and he can never get his arms through. When he pointed this out to Addison once proudly, while flexing a bicep, she seemed impressed. Or she smiled, anyway.

But. It's not the billowing. It's the words.

It's the – arrogant? _Arrogant?_ Him?When he was mature enough to go to Richard with her, _at her request_ , sit there next to her and –

No.

That's not going to fly.

 _He's_ going to fly, though, down the hall to catch up with her to set the record straight.

"Addison. _Addison,_ " he hisses when she doesn't turn around immediately.

She finally does, with one last billow, and folds her arms over her chest. "What," she asks.

Like that.

No question mark.

The nerve!

"What do you mean, _what_ ," he frowns. "Why would you say – how am I – how could _you_ ," he says finally, recovering his footing, "say that about me?"

"It was surprisingly easy, actually," she says.

She doesn't even look guilty.

"Weren't we just saying how we were going to be civil … and mature?"

Now she looks the slightest bit guilty. Progress.

"Yes," she admits, "but … it's true. So I said it."

"It's true, so you said it."

"Right."

"You said it because it's true."

"Exactly."

"There are plenty of _true_ things that you don't say."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning you don't normally just spit out _true_ things without a reason."

"I disagree."

"Of course you disagree." He finds himself rolling his eyes. "And yet … you're wrong. On an average day how many _true_ things would you say you let go without saying?"

"I don't know, Derek, you want a number?"

"An example will do. Here, I'll help. _For example_ , I've never once heard you say that … O'Reilly's not fooling anyone with the backcombing … for example."

"Hey, Patrick," Addison says loudly, and Derek startles, looking hurriedly for the doctor whose rapidly growing bald spot he just called out.

"What are you doing?" he hisses. "He's not here."

"I know," Addison says, smiling. "See, sometimes I say things that _aren't_ true."

"Now that I know," he replies darkly, "and we probably shouldn't go there."

"Right." She checks the time. "Derek, I have a lot of work to do, if you don't mind – "

"I do mind," he insists. "You still haven't told me why you … said what you said, after our nice, civil conversation with Richard."

"Because you don't want to know the answer."

"And yet I asked you for the answer … which would seem to suggest the opposite."

She sighs deeply as if he's the one putting _her_ out.

"Fine," she says, "but I need more coffee for this. _Real_ coffee," she adds, but he's already walking in the direction of the cafeteria; it was pretty obvious what she meant.

A few heads turn as they walk together down the hall – nothing particularly unusual for them, and he ignores it. Once in the cafeteria, though, he finds it harder to ignore.

"Good morning, Dr. Shepherd," the woman behind the unnecessarily complicated espresso machine smiles broadly. "Your usual?"

"Yes, please," Addison says, and Derek sees a little color rise in her cheeks, "but actually it's, uh, it's Dr. Montgomery now."

Derek sees the barista's gaze flicker toward the sparkling rings on Addison's left hand, and then sees Addison snatch that hand away and use her other hand to gesture toward the badge clipped to her white coat.

Which is a new one.

Derek frowns a little. She has a new badge? It makes sense, it just seems … like a hassle.

"Ah! I'm sorry," the barista says quickly, "I'll remember that. Same order though, right, Doctor?"

"Right," Addison says. "The _important_ things haven't changed."

Derek finds himself coloring a little now at her unnecessary dig, but he lets her have it. After all, when you're as happy as he is – as bright and shiny – you can afford to let someone else have a couple of small victories.

Even if that someone else is, well, Satan.

"And you, Doctor … sir?" the barista asks after a moment of stumbling.

"Just a black coffee, please," he says. He's a man of simple tastes. Although lately he's noticed the cafeteria's coffee has gone downhill. Watery … even burnt. But unlike Addison, he would never call attention to something like that.

"He wants an Americano," Addison says, sounding almost bored, "but you have to call it a black coffee so he doesn't lose his woodsman card."

"His – my _what?_ " He turns to Addison. "What are you talking about? You know I don't like those … frilly drinks."

"I know you like to drink Americanos," she says, "because even _you_ know they taste better than brewed black coffee."

"I drink black coffee from this cafeteria all the time."

"And how does it taste?"

"Better when I'm with you," he says without thinking about how that sounds, immediately blushing. "That's not what I meant," he says hastily.

"I know what you meant, Derek, because I'm the one who makes sure you get what you actually want instead of what you order."

He blinks. "That doesn't sound right."

"How was the coffee in the cafeteria before I moved out here?"

"A little watery," he admits.

"And now that we're … "

He waits for her to say _divorced_ , but she goes with, "not having coffee together anymore?"

"A little watery," he repeats, "but that's … that doesn't make any sense. I like _regular_ coffee. Simple. Ordinary."

"No, you don't," she says. "You just think you like it. Or you _want_ to like it."

The barista's head is turning back and forth like she's at a tennis match.

"Clearly, Addison, you have no idea what I like."

"Just taste the coffee."

"What?"

"Taste the coffee. You've finished?" Addison smiles at the barista. "Wonderful. Thank you, Patrice." She takes the cup. "Drink," she orders Derek.

"Excuse me?"

"Just take a sip."

"Fine. But only because I need caffeine."

"Noted," she sighs.

He blows on the surface of the steaming cup, glaring back at her when she glares at him, and then finally takes a sip.

It's delicious.

It's rich and full-bodied and not watery at all and it smells like heaven. He closes his eyes for a brief moment.

"Well?" Addison demands, eyebrow lifted.

He opens his eyes. "It's … fine," he says.

" _Please_ ," she says. "We all saw your face. Right, Patrice?"

"Uh…"

"Don't bring her into this," Derek scolds.

"Into what?"

"Forget it." Derek takes a plastic cover for the cup. "Thank you for the drink," he tells the young woman.

"You loved it," Addison tells him, gathering her cup and stalking toward the registers. "So now that we're not going to be having coffee together, you can start ordering what you _actually_ want all by yourself."

"This is not what I _actually_ want," he scowls, glancing at the cup. "This is … fancy. I like plain, black-"

"Give it a rest, Derek," she snaps. "You're such a reverse snob … which is as bad as being a snob. Or worse, because you can't admit what you are."

"I thought I was an arrogant ass," he says, just as they reach the registers, and sees the cashier's eyebrows lift in response.

"Oh, you are. You can be more than one thing at once," Addison says pleasantly, setting her coffee down on the metal cart; Derek sets his down next to it.

"Together?" the cashier asks.

"Not anymore," Addison says firmly as Derek fishes a twenty out of his wallet.

" _Paying_ together, Addison," Derek hisses. "And yes," he tells the cashier, "together, please. God forbid she let a wallet ruin the line of her dress."

"I might have a wallet in my lab coat," she frowns.

"You might … but you don't." He waits patiently for change. "What's that you said to Patrice in there? The _important_ things don't change?"

"Thank you for admitting my wardrobe is important," she says with a surprising amount of dignity, "and, uh, thank you for the coffee."

"Don't mention it." He follows her away from the register. "Now where are we going?"

"I don't know." She pauses. "You still want to, uh … talk?"

"Talk?" He's confused. "Why would I – oh, well, yes, I think you still haven't answered my question … about why you would … _attack_ me after such a civil discussion with Richard."

She looks annoyed for some reason. "Right. That's exactly what I meant. Just – let's go outside."

"Fine."

He follows her toward the doors leading to the outdoor seating. With some effort – he walks quickly, but she's ridiculous.

 _Click-clack._

Billow, billow.

"Dr. Shepherd?"

They both turn at the same time. "Yes?"

He shoots Addison a look; she's blushing slightly.

"Yes?" Derek repeats, without the echo this time.

It's an intern whose name he can't remember, and she's female so trying to check out her nametag isn't going to work, not when it's so unfortunately placed. He offers a neutral smile instead, waiting for her to speak.

"Dr. Shepherd, I'm sorry to interrupt, I just, uh, I saw you and I was wondering if I could get you to, uh, to sign this chart…."

Good thing a patient's life wasn't at stake, or they'd be dead. Derek reminds himself to remind someone – Bailey? – that the interns really need a lesson in urgency.

"Of course," he says quickly, reaching for the chart. He pats the breast pocket of his lab coat. No pen. He frowns.

"Do you –"

The intern is blushing madly. Of course she doesn't have a pen. She's an intern.

Addison whips a pen out of … he has no idea where … and sets it on the chart. "Here," she says, not a little smugly.

"Thanks," he mutters, flipping the chart open.

"Don't mention it." She sips her coffee, or whatever it is in that paper cup. "I know you haven't carried your own pens since the early nineties."

"Excuse me," he frowns as he scrawls his signature and hands the chart back to the intern. "That's not true."

"It's completely true."

"It's – forget it." He hands her back the pen. "Did you need something else?" he asks the intern, who's still standing there.

"Um … can you just, um, sign there too?" she whispers, opening the chart again.

"Right." He glances at Addison, embarrassed; she raises her eyes heavenward but hands back the pen. He signs again, hanging onto the pen until the intern leaves this time to avoid another awkward interaction.

"Thanks," he mutters again.

"I would say _any time_ , but … I guess what I should say is that you should start carrying your own pens."

"I carry pens," he says. "Sometimes. I carry pens sometimes."

"No," she says, "you _think_ you carry pens, just like you _think_ you like black coffee. Now things have changed."

"I thought you said the important things haven't changed," he reminds her.

"I did say that," she agrees as he opens the door to the outdoor seating, letting her walk through first before he follows her outside, "so I guess that means these things aren't important."

"I guess so."

She leads him toward a relatively unpopulated area.

His eyes fall on the sparkling rings decorating her left hand.

"I told you, I'll try soap," she says defensively.

"I know. I heard you."

"Why are you in such a rush, anyway? Do you want them back so you can give them to Meredith or something?"

There's an uncomfortable silence, the kind where he knows she wishes she hasn't just said something. Usually it's his job to try to smooth things over when that happens.

But things change.

"No, I don't want them back," he says evenly, "they're yours. I just think you'll, uh, you'll feel better when they're off."

"Oh, I'll feel _better_ ," she repeats acidly. "Great. I was wondering when that would happen."

He sighs. "Addison …"

"No, it must be directly correlated to the rings, because you're not wearing yours, and you're just delirious with happiness."

Her words hang in the air for a moment. They both look at his bare left hand.

He never put his ring back on.

She asked about it a few times during their failed attempt at reconciliation, eventually figuring out that he wasn't going to talk about it.

" _It's just a ring, Derek, and you said we're trying … right? We're trying to make this work?" Looking up at him under lowered lashes, voice trembling a little. He can't give in when she's like this or he'll give in forever. He'll fall in, and he can't have that, so he hardens his voice and his face before he responds._

" _If it's just a ring, then why do you keep nagging me?" He sees hurt flash across her features. "Why is it so important to you?"_

" _It's not," she says, and they both know she's lying, "just forget it."_

He did forget it. Or he tried to, anyway.

But she came across it in his things once. He wondered briefly at the time if she had been looking – then again, the trailer was so small they had no choice but to be in each other's things – in each other's faces – pretty much all the time.

" _You kept it." There's a sense of wonder in her voice as she unfolds her hand to show him what she's holding._

" _I never said I didn't," he reminds her coolly._

" _Well, you never said you did, either."_

" _No, I guess I didn't." He pauses, because she's just sitting there on the end of the bed, his wedding ring in her palm, and it's taking every ounce of self-control not to snatch it back._

" _Can you please put that back where it came from?" he asks finally._

 _She blinks. "It came from your hand, Derek. Can I put it back there?"_

" _No, you can't," he says sharply, and when he sees tears in her eyes he relents, sitting down next to her on the bed. She's closed her fist around the ring and she looks embarrassed. "I need time, Addison," he says, much more gently this time. "I told you that. And I still need it."_

" _Right." She unclenches her fist. "Sorry. Here."_

" _Thank you." He takes the ring out of the center of her palm. She's been holding it so tightly it's left a little ring-shaped mark in her always impressionable skin, like a circle drawn around her life line. He rubs his thumb over the indentation, almost unconsciously. She's being very still, as if she doesn't want to startle him, but she's not crying. Which is good, because he's not sure what he would do if she did._

 _He puts it back where it came from himself – the second cabinet across the trailer, behind his winter hat._

 _She's still watching him when he turns around._

" _What?" he asks._

" _Nothing," she says, stretching her own hands out in front of her._

" _Addie…"_

" _Forget it." She stands up from the bed. Any trace of tears is gone. She tugs on her skirt – no need, it already looks perfect, she's forever straightening things that don't need any adjustment. "You, uh, you want to get some food or something?"_

 _She looks … hopeful. His phone rings then; it's the hospital. He drops a quick peck on her cheek as he gathers his things and prepares to head in._

" _Another time," he says as the trailer door closes behind him._

 _He doesn't look back but for some reason, as he climbs into the jeep and starts the motor, he has the feeling she's still watching him._

He hasn't touched it since then.

He supposes he should – do something with it. What – sell it, donate it, melt it down? It's thick and sturdy, more gold than anyone needs.

"Do you still have it?" she asks abruptly, as if she can read his mind. "The ring, I mean."

"I don't know," he says after a moment, glancing out toward the trees that line the hospital's open-air parking lot.

"How can you not know?"

"Addison."

"I mean, it's a simple question. You either have it, or you don't."

"Addison, would you just – " he stops, realizing he's raised his voice.

" _Now, jewelry," drones the lawyer, while Derek stares into his bitter cup of coffee – it's so watery, tasting almost burned – and drums his fingers on the tabletop, "jewelry can be either marital property or non-marital property, depending on the circumstances around which –"_

" _She can keep her jewelry," Derek mutters._

" _Well, that's very –"_

" _Don't be too hasty, Derek," Addison smirks, "I've always thought you'd look terrific in diamonds."_

 _The lawyer looks like he's waiting for them to finish … whatever they're doing. Or maybe he's just waiting for time to tick away, since he gets paid an exorbitant amount of money per hour. The lawyer has already spent about a thousand dollars telling them what "property" is, which for two people who have acquired plenty of it during an eleven-year marriage seems like a waste of time._

" _I'm not being too hasty." He drains the last of his bad coffee. "I'm trying to get us to be hasty at all. We do have jobs to get to."_

" _Dr. Shepherd, division of property is –"_

" – _simple," he cuts the lawyer off. "Or it should be. Can you just – divide it down the middle?" He gestures with his bare left hand: a clean cut._

" _Well." The lawyer looks from Derek to Addison. "Yes, financially speaking, we can, for the accounts we've discussed. I'll just need to restate the terms so you can confirm."_

 _Derek sighs, and then notices there's more coffee in his cup and glares at Addison, whose hand is still on the carafe of coffee. Her cheeks get a little pink and she snatches her hand away as if she has no idea what she just did._

" _Fine, then," he says, sitting back in his chair and crossing his legs, and noticing Addison is doing much the same thing on her side of the table. "Let's start there."_

"Forget it," Addison says; she's rubbing some kind of complicated pattern onto the cardboard sleeve of her coffee cup. "It's none of my business what you do with it."

It's true. Obviously. So how does she manage to make it sound like accusation and injury all at once? And why are they even –

Oh … right.

"Addison." He frowns. "What you said before –"

"Oh … right." She takes a sip of coffee. "Let's just forget it."

"Forget it?" He raises his eyebrows. "So you didn't mean, it then."

"I didn't say I didn't mean it, I said let's just forget it."

"Addison … if there's something you want to say, then …" he's not sure the end of that sentence.

"Then I should spit it out now, before we go back to not speaking?"

"Who says we're not speaking? We're _speaking_ right now."

"I know that."

"And we were speaking in Richard's office. And we're being civil about this, Addison, I thought you agreed. We're adults, we can be … maturely divorced, we can interact like professionals in a professional environment where –"

"Shut up!"

His eyes widen; his mouth is still open from what he considers to be a pretty good speech when she interrupts with a rare raised voice.

He notices a few curious glances from others in the outdoor area.

"Addison," he frowns, lowering his voice, "there are other people around."

"Yeah? And you're worried what they'll think?"

"Aren't you?"

"No, I'm not," she says, surprising him. "I should be, maybe a few weeks ago I would have been, but I don't think I care anymore."

"Well, I care."

She laughs – not an amused laugh. A rather mean one, actually. "You – care? You, Derek Shepherd, _care_? Please."

He's offended.

But he tries to remind himself she's just lashing out. It's not her fault she's not as happy as he is. Still … decorum.

"Addison, I have no idea what you're so angry about, but can you please –"

"No idea. You have _no idea_?"

"No, I don't," he says honestly. "We were being civil, we were getting along … fine, we went to help Richard, we gave him some excellent advice, and then you suddenly attacked me. Out of nowhere."

"Out of nowhere," she shakes her head.

"Out of nowhere," he repeats firmly. "Arrogant? _Self-righteous?_ I think you know me better than that."

"Oh, you're wrong on _both_ counts," she says, glaring. "Actually, I know you well enough to know that you are arrogant _and_ you are self-righteous."

"Addison."

"Do you want to know why?"

"Excuse me?"

"You asked me why I said it. Before, you know, in the –" she gestures, a swirl of one hand, a very _Addison_ way to say _a few minutes ago_. She has her own sign language. He used to find it endearing.

Why she attacked him with those unfair words. Right.

"Well?" he asks.

" _Well_ , Derek, how do I count the ways." Her sarcastic tone grates. "Why don't I just quote you here, because you really do have a way with words …. _It's happiness. I understand why you wouldn't recognize it._ "

He finds heat rising in his cheeks as she repeats his words from earlier that morning. "I didn't mean it like that," he says immediately, sullenly.

"Like what, Derek?"

In contrast, her tone is perfectly pleasant. Pleasant … and predatory, circling her trap.

"Like … that," he says helplessly.

"The way I see it," she says calmly. "There are three options. Number one, you meant that I don't know how to be happy myself. Number two, you meant that I never made _you_ happy."

He shifts in place, uncomfortable.

"Which is … problematic, either way. Because if I've never been happy myself, well, I think my husband of eleven years, my _partner_ of fifteen, should maybe take a little responsibility there," she says coolly. "And if you're saying I never made _you_ happy … well … I don't think that's true." Her tone changes. "And if it's true … it's still a pretty freaking terrible thing to say."

"It's not true," he mutters, then pauses. "Wait, what's the third option?"

"The third option?" She looks down at her hand, then back up at him. "The third option is that you didn't mean either of those things, you just meant to hurt me. And you knew that it would."

"What's the fourth option, then," he asks, a little desperate now.

"There is no fourth option," she says. "And even if there were … you'd still be an ass for saying it."

"Okay." He takes a deep breath. "I … shouldn't have said that. Is that why you said I was arrogant? And … self-righteous?"

"One of the many reasons, yes," she says, infuriatingly, "and, Derek, I get that I deserve … some of it, okay? I screwed up, I know that, more than once and I get it. But you won. You're done with me, you're divorced, you're free to pursue your favorite junior high crush around the hospital, _why are you still being such an ass?_ "

Her sharp tone draws a few more stares.

He doesn't have an answer.

All he has is a change of venue.

"Let go of me," she says when he takes her arm. He does, but he places a hand on her back to move her ahead of him.

"We're done talking," she informs him as they walk through the cafeteria.

"We're not done talking," he corrects her.

"Dr. Shepherd?"

They both turn at the interruption; Addison colors and turns away.

"Yes?" Derek responds to the resident standing in front of them.

"I meant the other Dr. Shepherd," the young man says, looking confused.

"There is no other Dr. Shepherd," Addison replies, turning back.

"Oh." He looks even more confused now. "I mean … Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd."

"It's just Dr. Montgomery now," she says, sounding tired. "We're divorced."

"Oh," the resident says again. Derek sees his eyes skate down to the sparkling rings on Addison's left hand, over to Derek standing next to her, a hand still resting on her back, to the matching cups of coffee they're holding. "Oh," he repeats, "um. Sorry."

"It's fine." Addison accepts the chart he's holding, signs with a flourish with the pen she always carries, and returns it.

"How many times a day does that happen?" Derek asks when they're alone.

"Don't ask." She tucks the pen away. "Just be glad you don't have to deal with it. Which, I suppose, is just one of the many reasons for your … _happiness._ "

He glances around the hallway. They're not _actually_ alone.

But he's starting to feel like maybe they really do have some things to say.

"Just … come with me," he says, and he's not sure whether he's more surprised or _not_ surprised when she does.

…

"A supply closet? Really?"

"Do you have a better idea?"

"No," she admits. "At least it's a different one," she mutters.

"A different one from what?"

She blinks. "Nothing."

"Just say it," he sighs.

"Fine, Derek, it's a different supply closet from the one your girlfriend found me in the day after _you_ found me in the hotel."

He blinks, trying to put together the time line. "She found you – in a supply closet? What are you talking about? Why were you in a … ." He stops.

" _Have you seen Addison?"_

" _No, not since last night." Stephanie shrugs. "Sorry. She wasn't on call though; Beckett was."_

" _I know, she wasn't on call but she stayed anyway."_

" _Oh. Sorry, Derek. I think she was working with Webber –"_

" _-on the preemie with gastroschisis," Derek finishes. "Yeah, I know, but I went to the NICU and the baby's … gone."_

" _Ohhh." Stephanie's face changes. "That sucks," she says bluntly._

" _Yeah, it does. Listen, if you see Addison, will you tell her I'm looking for her?"_

 _He doesn't wait for Stephanie's answer, just keeps up this version of rounding, where he tracks down the hallway asking questions of anyone who might have seen Addison. She has to be somewhere. If he knows her … somewhere alone._

 _He's checked on-call rooms, that corner of the interns' locker room no one ever goes, and both supply closets on the wing._

 _But not the ones in the south wing, he realizes. He takes long strides there and opens the first one he sees._

"Why was I in a supply closet?" Addison finishes the sentence for him, finishes the question, but doesn't answer.

She just shakes her head, and then turns to stare at the rows of supplies on the metal shelving.

 _She's in there, sitting on an overturned plastic pail that doesn't look particularly comfortable, wearing wrinkly pink scrubs and an absolutely devastated expression._

" _Addison," he whispers._

"Why do you _think_ I was in a supply closet, Derek?" she asks without looking at him.

"Getting … supplies?" He smiles weakly at his own attempt at a joke, wondering if it will make him feel better.

 _She looks up at him from under wet bangs. She must have just showered, there's a clinging scent of that green all-in-one soap from the locker room._

" _My baby died," she says softly._

 _He closes the door behind him and kneels in front of her. "I know. I'm sorry, Addie."_

" _She was my responsibility. Webber said. I stayed here all night doing every intervention I could think of and some I had just read about, he never answered his pager, Derek, I tried so many times."_

 _He's confused. That doesn't sound like Webber, who's always been so involved. And to abandon a baby – and a preemie at that?_

" _Maybe he had an emergency," Derek suggests gently, "or another patient."_

" _He didn't."_

" _How do you –"_

" _Because he did it on purpose." She raises her head to look at him; a few tears fall down her cheeks. It makes his stomach hurt to see her so upset._

" _On purpose? What do you mean?"_

" _On purpose. Like … a lesson," she says the word as if it tastes bad, "because he thought I was – too involved, that I needed to learn distance."_

" _I don't understand."_

" _He knew Courtney was going to die, Derek. He said they knew the minute they opened her up. And he just – he told me I had to keep her alive and all along he knew she was dying. Her parents had already said goodbye. The nurses knew. I'm the only idiot who tried to keep her alive."_

 _Stunned, Derek tries to make sense of it all._

 _She sighs deeply. "Maybe he's right, Derek, maybe I won't be a good doctor-"_

" _You'll be a great doctor," he corrects her, "you already are, Addison, caring is good, how can caring be bad?"_

" _Webber thinks it can," she sniffles._

" _Webber doesn't know everything," he says, hoping it sounds convincing._

" _You said yourself he's amazing."_

" _Yeah, he's amazing, but so are you, Addie, and … I'm never going to talk to him again either," he says firmly._

 _She laughs a little through her tears. "We can't both not talk to him. Then we'll both get fired and … then what?"_

" _We find other jobs. We join the circus."_

" _The circus?" She rubs her hand across her eyes. "I'm not flexible enough for that."_

" _Oh, but I disagree," he says, moving some of her hair out of her face._

 _She laughs a little, and then she's crying again, harder this time._

" _Addie…" He wishes he could say something helpful, protect her from Webber, but he's their boss. And he's always seemed to like Addison – even like her the best, he's heard some of their cohort call her Webber's pet. And now …_

" _Okay. You don't ever have to talk to him again," he says, and reaches up for her – she's so flushed from crying that she feels warm, even hot, and he pulls her down to sit with him. She hangs on tightly, tears wetting the neck of his scrubs._

 _For a while she just cries and he holds onto her, absorbing her grief. Then she sits back, still in his lap, and gives him a watery half-smile._

" _Thanks for finding me," she says._

" _It was easy."_

" _It was?"_

" _No," he admits, "but it was worth it."_

" _Derek." Her voice shakes a little._

" _I'll always find you," he says._

"Hilarious, Derek." She shakes her head. "This is all a big joke to you, right?"

"Addison."

He softens his voice – that tone always works on her, but it doesn't seem to this time. She's still focusing on the military-perfect line of plastic-wrapped rolled gauze in front of her.

There's a long, uncomfortable silence in which he tries very hard not to picture what she looks like when she cries. It's not something she does very often. The thing is, once you've seen it, it's hard to unsee.

"Meredith didn't mention anything," he says finally.

"No?" Addison does turn around now. Her face is set and her eyes are dry. "There's such a thing as sisterhood, Derek – even if you do sleep with someone's husband. You'd think you'd know that, with all your sisters," she adds.

"Sisterhood," he repeats, "is that why my sisters always liked you better than they liked me?"

"No," Addison says. "They liked me better than they liked you because I actually showed up, listened to them, and enjoyed their company."

He frowns. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Was there something unclear about it?"

Fine, not _unclear_ , but what a thing to say. About his own family!

"I showed up," he says defensively. "I was a good brother."

"Like you were a good husband?"

"Like you were a good wife," he snaps.

And then they're both silent, breathing heavily.

"So much for civil," she says quietly after a moment.

"We can be civil," he repeats.

"We can't be civil."

"Then go back to New York," he says impatiently.

"Are you just _dismissing_ me from Seattle, Derek? You snap your fingers and I move here, you snap your fingers and I move back?"

"You snapped _your_ fingers, as I recall. You didn't have to move out here."

"I did if I wanted you back, Derek. And I wanted you back."

He looks down at the floor for a moment. When he looks back up there are tears in her eyes. They shouldn't affect him.

They don't, it's just …

That they do.

"Addison…."

"Don't. Don't feel _sorry_ for me. Look, Derek, I know what I did, I regret it and I'm paying for it. Still." She laughs a little, mirthlessly. "And I will be for a while, believe me. But if you really don't care, if you're really so happy, can you just stop being so _cruel_ about it?"

He's quiet for a moment, taking it in.

"I do care," he says.

"Please."

"And I wasn't trying to be cruel. I was just … trying to be happy."

"Oh, but you don't have to try, Derek. It's _effortless_ for you now that I'm gone."

"You're not gone," he snaps back before he can stop himself, "you're everywhere, in my space, as usual."

"As usual?" Her eyes widen. "I'm sorry I didn't move cross-country the moment I found tiny panties in your tux pocket, Derek, but last minute flights are expensive."

"Like that's an issue for you," he mutters, annoyed with her sarcasm.

"You know what?" She props a hand on her hip. "Let's not be civil. Or mature. Just … stay away from me."

"You stay away from _me_."

"Fine."

" _Fine._ "

For a moment they're both silent.

Neither one moves.

Her left hand, gripping the edge of the metal shelving, draws both their attention.

"I haven't taken them off, other than surgery, for the last eleven years," she says quietly. "I don't even know what it would look like without them. I don't know what I would … _be_ like without them."

"You kept them on," he says, not meeting her eyes, "while you were living with Mark? While you … thought you were _in love_ with him?" The idea disgusts him, and his tone makes that clear.

"Yeah, I did." She turns away, moving a box of syringes on the shelf behind her. "He wasn't thrilled about it."

"Let me guess. They were _stuck_?" He can't help his tone, even if it's not the nicest.

"They weren't stuck." She turns around, fingers on the rings. "I didn't want to take them off," she admits. "I guess some part of me thought it was still a bad dream, I'd wake up and still be married and … ."

Her voice trails off. And then, thankfully, she changes the subject.

"You asked how often it happens? Before?"

He nods, no need to clarify.

"Every day. Every _hour_ , someone who works here calls me Dr. Shepherd, or I have to resubmit a form I submitted under Dr. Shepherd, or a patient doesn't understand why they can't see Dr. Shepherd, or I get a confused message on my voicemail or with my assistant saying they were trying to find Dr. Shepherd."

He blinks, taking it in. It seems so much … simpler to him. Granted, he didn't really think about it, but still.

"Every day. Multiple times a day," she repeats. "I'm published under Dr. Shepherd, every article, every award I've won in the last eleven years was given to Dr. Shepherd, every grant in my name is to _your_ name. I haven't answered to _Dr. Montgomery_ since I was an intern. _Dr. Montgomery_ … is my father."

She stops abruptly.

He never thought about that.

It's been … six years since she's even seen him.

"Addison."

She shakes her head when she sees his expression. "It doesn't matter, Derek. Montgomery is my name, isn't it? Shepherd … was yours."

"It was yours too," he says tentatively.

"But it's not anymore."

"But it was," he says. "And … you didn't ask me."

"Excuse me?"

"You didn't ask me about your name. In the whole – the process, the thing, you didn't ask. You never said anything about it, Addison. I know there's a – box to check, on the papers, or whatever, but if you had asked…"

"If I had asked, then what?"

"I don't know what," he admits. "But I wouldn't have … insisted." He feels awkward using that word, as if he's capable of _insisting_ that his ex-wife do anything. "If you wanted to keep the name, I mean."

She doesn't respond.

"Some people keep their names after they divorce," he says. "Their – husband's names. You know what I mean."

Does she? He's not sure she does. Shepherd was his name. But it was hers too. Montgomery-Shepherd, the _Montgomery_ the icing on their shared cake, a little adjectival addition to separate them, when necessary.

But it wasn't usually necessary.

"I already changed my name." Her voice is tight. "Legally. Everywhere. Do you know how long it takes to get a new driver's license? Or a passport? Financial statements, bank accounts, credit cards … at least I don't have to worry about a lease or utilities," she mutters, rolling her eyes.

"I know. I was … just saying." He pauses, stuck on her badge again. "You … had to get a new badge."

"I had to get a hell of a lot more than that."

He doesn't blink at the language or the implication; he's still stuck on the image of her in the basement in the grim-grey Personnel office, filling out new paperwork. The picture, if he squints, is new too, he realizes. They're supposed to take new pictures every year, some security thing. Maybe with a new name the same rule applies. He studies the small image of her on the badge for a moment. It's his imagination, probably, or she actually does look a little sad.

Perfect, still, of course, in lab coat and tasteful jewelry and a flattering printed …something, the picture is only chest-up. But maybe a little sad.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly.

"About the badge?"

"About everything."

"Oh." She looks down, twisting at her stuck rings. "Yeah. I'm sorry too."

"Don't." He puts a hand over hers and she looks up, surprised. "You're going to irritate the skin," he tells her, separating her right hand from her left. "You'll make it harder to take them off, and it will hurt more when you do."

She opens her mouth as if she's going to say something, then closes it again and just nods.

He holds her hand a moment longer, then releases it.

"Addison…."

"Yeah?" Her voice is almost inaudible.

"I'm not giddy," he says quietly.

She frowns. "Excuse me?"

"I'm not giddy," he admits. "I said it, I know, I just – I don't know. I was trying to be funny, or – "

"Derek, don't." She waves a dismissive hand. "You've made it very clear how happy you are. How … bright and shiny."

He winces a little at that term. Did he really need to throw that in her face?

She checks the time. "Look, this has been really, uh … but if we want to keep our jobs, we should get moving."

"Right."

He watches her straighten her dress and lab coat even though, as always, she looks perfect.

He holds the door open for her and she walks out ahead of him.

 _Click-clack._

Billow, billow.

He catches up.

"Addison …"

She turns around. "Yes, Derek?"

"I really do want to be mature about this."

She groans. "Not this again … please."

"I mean it, though. Actually mature. Civil. Not just saying it. Friends," he says tentatively, "we were friends first, weren't we?"

"I guess." She shrugs, then looks pensive for a moment – even sentimental. "I had designs on you from the beginning, though," she admits.

He smiles a little bit at that.

"Friends," she repeats again, her tone musing and a little doubtful. "Really?"

"Friends," he says. "I mean, we're still both pretty new in town."

Now she actually smiles a bit.

"Friends," she seems to still be considering it. "Well … okay. I guess we can try it."

"So, as friends, do you want to … get coffee? Tomorrow?"

"I have an early meeting with my team," she says. "Seven-thirty."

"I'll bring you coffee, then," he says. "Seven-ten."

She blinks.

"Were you _not_ planning to spend the twenty minutes before the meeting in your office, organizing your notes?"

"No, I … was," she says hesitantly.

"Good. Seven-ten, then. Coffee. Your usual, I assume?"

She nods.

"And an Americano," he stumbles a little over the word, but manages to get it out, "for me."

"Yeah?" She glances up at him.

"Yeah." He nods.

"Okay, then. See you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow," he echoes, and watches her walk away.

 _Click-clack._

Billow, billow

Maybe she's right. The important things haven't changed.

They've grown, altered, adapted …

But they haven't changed.

* * *

 _My babies! I'm finding myself on a season three kick, so expect some more exploration either here or in my season three WIPs. For everyone who's been suggesting flips, thank you! I keep track, and I appreciate it. Did you read seven thousand words of Addek on a chilly Friday? Review and let me know! I'd love to hear what you think._


	24. Movement and Timing

**_A/N: Welcome back to Flip the Script! Christmas has my Addek heart all a-flutter, which is why I found myself writing another flip of the iconic season 2 Christmas episode. (Well, that and because I'm Addek trash.) My love for that episode is no secret; it inspired me to write the insanely long Climbing Way (which I am working on updating, I promise, btw), and I've already flipped it as part of this project too. But I realized that although I've played with different ways Addison might react to Derek's painfully-timed revelation, I haven't (until now) looked at what might have happened without that revelation. So here's another flip of the Christmas episode. Just like in the actual episode, Derek shows up at Joe's after re-operating on Mr. Epstein's frontal lobe. But then ... well, then it flips. Read on to see how. I hope you enjoy!_**

* * *

 **Movement and Timing  
** _(2.12, "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer")_

* * *

The bells mounted on the door chime as it swings shut behind him. He takes a moment to catch his breath – it was chilly outside, but warm and rather steamy inside the bar.

"Hey, Dr. Shepherd."

He looks up at his name, locating the source.

"Hey, Joe," he responds, making his way to the bar. He glances around the room again before continuing, not seeing her. "I was looking for the other Dr. Shepherd, actually. Is she –"

"No."

Derek checks his watch. "No?"

"She _was_ here, but she left," Joe corrects, shaking his head. "Your timing meeting girls in bars just isn't great, is it, doc?"

"She was here," Derek repeats, confused, ignoring the bartender's other comment.

Addison should have been off almost two hours ago, and he checked the board for her name on the way out like he always does, out of habit.

"Sat right there," Joe indicates a table near the front of the bar, "and waited for a while."

"Where did she – "

"She stood up fast and left," Joe shrugs. "I'm guessing it was –

"…back to the hospital," Derek repeats along with him. "Right. Thank you, Joe."

"Sorry, doc."

"No, it's … fine."

"You want a drink while you wait?"

Derek considers this. The honest answer is _yes_ , he wants a drink. Needs a drink, even. But what was it Joe said about timing?

"Not yet," he says. "Thank you, though. I should …"

He looks toward the door.

Making his way back to the door, his eye falls on something on the corner of the table where Joe indicated Addison had been sitting. He thought it was a stack of napkins at first, but –

No. It's a catalogue, one he recognizes, by the tartan print on the cover as well as the name: _House of Edinburgh_.

 _Okay, well, how about French food and Scottish catalogues tonight, around nine?_

Addison loves catalogue shopping. She's a tactile person, this never surprised him; she's always liked to touch as well as to see. Ordering online wouldn't cut it.

 _Oh, um, I guess that depends on what time I get out of here._

He flips the catalogue open idly; it falls, predictably to the page where it must have been open the most. He's faced with a serious of artfully lit photographs featuring wool blankets in all shades.

 _So, what do you think? Plain or plaid?_

The blankets are absurdly expensive, even for Addison. Normally he'd tease her that the wool has to come from extraordinary sheep at those prices. _Genius sheep,_ he'd tease her, _or solid gold ones._ The page is turned down – Addison would have had his head and even her own for dog-earing a page in anything but Christmas catalogues, where it was _de rigeur._ There are different rules for Christmas, after all. _M_ , it says on the turned down corner.

 _M_ for Mom.

She did this, going through catalogues and ticking off what she planned to buy for everyone. There were expensive handmade toy catalogues for the children, the sort of executive toys for the brothers-in-law.

 _You love Christmas shopping._

He did love it, or at least he loved it with her; her enthusiasm was catching. They'd pore over the pages together, sipping spiked hot chocolate or cider, laughing as they bantered over which family member should get which present. Teasing each other until shopping turned to laughing, laughing to kisses that tasted of Christmas: chocolate, peppermint. Spiced apple.

And initials. She had an intricate system, making sure she remembered which family member was designated each present. He'd find his own, which she sometimes hid to tease or throw him off, and sometimes showed him to get ideas. She'd drop hints, casual terminology he knew she'd picked up from her shopping, from _Fish and Stream_ or _The Urban Adventurer._ And he'd find his own initial there, in those types of catalogues. _D._

He stares at the page for one more moment; the listing for the lambswool blanket on page 26 is circled, and there is a small x under three color choices: the first a deep green, the second a tartan in shades of red, the third in shades of blue.

 _So, what do you think? Plain or plaid?_

 _Uh, I don't know. Whatever._

The bells on the door jingle as it closes behind him.

…

He fiddles with his blackberry as he waits for the elevator. She didn't answer his text; presumably, her hands are busy. What would have driven her back to the hospital –

 _Quints._

Muscle memory punches in the floor number, and his hunch is correct.

He finds her in the NICU, a little breathless like she's just finished something. She doesn't ask what he's doing there, just nods with distracted greeting. Strands of hair have come down around her face; she shoves a few back with her forearm.

"How's Mr. Epstein's frontal lobe?" she asks when he approaches.

"He woke up smiling." Derek glances at the isolette, beeping steadily.

"Julie crashed," she says simply, apparently reading his telegraphed question.

"I'm sorry."

"Thanks." She glances through the glass at the isolette, multiple scrubbed figures still standing around the preemie. "You know how it is with PPHN cases. She's back on the vent, but her vessels …" Addison shakes her head. "We're trying additional nitric oxide."

Derek nods. "Are you … staying?"

"I don't want to leave, not while it's so uncertain." Addison looks up at him.

"But she's being monitored."

Addison nods, and Dr. Stevens appears in the vestibule as if she was summoned. "Here are her latest labs," she says in a monotone, holding them out to Addison.

"Dr. Stevens has been monitoring Julie," Addison says heartily. "She's doing a good job."

"Do you need anything else?" Stevens asks.

Derek finds himself frowning at her tone. The words are perfectly respectful, but still …

"You should go get some rest," Addison tells her. "I'll let you know if I need you." She pauses. "You're on call tonight?"

"I'm on call," Stevens replies, and then her voice drops, but the words are crystal clear: "actually on call, not just staying overnight so you can mess with my head."

Addison's face is impassive – except Derek sees a muscle move just slightly by her left eye. It's her tell; she's hurt. Not that Stevens would know. Or anyone else. Addison doesn't advertise.

"Dr. Stevens," Derek says sharply, surprised more by her attitude than the words whose meaning he doesn't understand.

Stevens looks embarrassed.

"Never mind," Addison says quietly, shaking her head at him almost imperceptibly. "Stevens … go and get some sleep, please, so you're alert if Julie needs you later."

"What was that about?" Derek asks when Stevens is out of earshot.

Addison waves a dismissive hand. "Interns. You know how they are. They're exhausted, they blow off steam."

"Well, she shouldn't be blowing off steam at you," Derek says irritably, not sure why it bothers him so much.

"It doesn't matter." Addison is deep in the chart she's reviewing. She glances up at him. "I can't leave yet," she admits. "You should go, though."

"It's Christmas Eve."

"I know." She flips a page of the chart, then looks up at him. Her eyes reflect the ceiling lights. "No one should lose someone they love on Christmas."

He pauses.

"Dorie," Addison explains. "I can't leave her when Julie might not make it."

"Right." He nods.

"Let me see how she responds to the nitric oxide." Addison gives him a faint smile. "You shouldn't spend your Christmas Eve in the hospital if you don't have to."

"I have patients I can check on."

She looks a little surprised. "Oh. Okay. I'll, uh, I'll let you know if anything changes."

"Good." He pauses. "Addison?"

She looks up.

"Good luck."

…

He checks in on a few patients, speaks to the on-call teams, and the nurses. An hour passes with no word from Addison; he decides to check back in the NICU.

It's buzzing with activity when he gets there, and for a moment he fears the worst, but he catches the nurse's tone.

"Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd – Julie's vitals keep improving!"

Derek maintains his distance, not wanting to interfere, until the crowd thins out and it's only Addison by the isolette. He hears her speaking softly to the tiny infant. She looks up and he catches her eyes; her face splits into a real smile, and he finds himself returning it.

Derek joins her at the isolette.

"She's stable," Addison says.

"Look at that." Derek glances at the readout. "She improved so quickly. It's not usually that quick with nitric oxide, is it?"

Addison shakes her head.

"Maybe it's a Christmas miracle," Derek suggests, only half joking.

"Maybe. Or she just needed love." Addison pauses. "I brought Dorie up to see her, before, and they spent a little time together. Everyone needs love on Christmas."

"Addison…"

"I need to go update Dorie." She glances at him. "Are you going to be – "

"I'll be here."

…

He's making his way toward the nurses' station in search of coffee when he catches sight of a blonde ponytail swinging just out of view.

For a moment he flashes back to his own intern year, to residency, to the way he'd be just going about his day, trying to stay awake, trying not to make a mistake, and he'd see a flash of red turning a corner – Addison's ponytail – and it would give him a surge of energy. _You're better than espresso_ , he told her once, and she blushed in that way he'd tease her about, starting with her cheekbones, and creeping its way southward.

But this isn't Addison; they're not interns anymore.

He speeds up. "Dr. Stevens – Dr. Stevens!"

The intern turns around, immediately looking nervous when she realizes who wants to talk to her.

"Is, uh, is everything okay, Dr. Shepherd?" Her eyes are darting guiltily and he ignores her attempt at politeness.

"Stevens. What was that about, before, in the NICU?"

"That? What do you mean?" She looks like she's trying to feign ignorance; he's in no mood.

"I heard what you said," he informs her calmly. "What was it about?"

"Oh, um," she stammers, her cheeks coloring. "That. I was just, um, tired. I didn't mean anything – "

"You were blowing off steam," he interrupts. "I get it. You're an intern. It happens. What I want to know is what you were referring to."

"Nothing, I just – "

"Dr. Stevens," he says impatiently.

He watches her draw breath, and before he can get more annoyed, she starts talking. "You know Emily? The quint who …" her voice trails off.

The one who died. "Yes. Go on."

As she tells him the story, he finds himself getting angry.

" … said the baby's life was in my hands …"

Not at Stevens.

"… and I tried everything, every breathing intervention I knew, every medication …"

At someone else.

" … that I have to learn distance, that it would make me a better doctor."

The intern's voice shakes; her chin wobbles. Goddamn it.

 _Richard._

The story has Richard written all over it. Apparently his game hasn't changed over the decade he's been on the west coast. It was Richard's bright idea when they were interns. He can easily recalls Addison's face, thirteen years ago now, puffy with exhaustion, red rings around eyes pale green from her tears. _He's gone,_ she said, _my baby's gone._ She told him what Richard did, she said _I'm never speaking to him again_ , and she didn't. Not for a solid year. That baby haunted her, he knows. What must it have done to her to do the same thing to another intern?

And why didn't she tell him?

He finds himself pausing.

She didn't tell him. Did she?

For a moment he just takes it in, and then he sees Addison hovering in the doorway in his memory, that very day, asking _think she'll ever talk to me again?_

Stevens. She must have meant Stevens.

"Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd made me think I killed that baby," Stevens says finally; she can't seem to quite meet his eye, he notices, her arms folded tightly across her chest like she's trying to comfort herself.

 _Am I invisible? I'm feeling strangely invisible._

"Why do you think she did that?"

 _Also inaudible._

Stevens looks surprised at his question. "Why? Because – well, I don't know."

"You don't know," he repeats, "you don't know why she did it, but you're willing to hate her for it anyway." He shakes his head. "Not the most sensible approach, is it? Or a fair one?"

She has the good grace to look embarrassed.

"Do you think she just figured it would be a good time to set you up with that baby? That she just wanted to – how did you put it – _mess with your head_?"

"Maybe," Stevens blurts, looking like she can't help herself. "She messes with everything else, _you_ should know that!"

He's taken aback for a moment and Stevens looks almost as surprised as he feels.

"Dr. Stevens," he says sternly, "that's an unacceptable way to talk about an attending. I understand that you're … upset … about a lesson she tried to teach you, but that's no excuse."

"But – "

He holds up a hand to silence her. "Dr. Shepherd's personal life has nothing to do with you. You're an intern. You speak to her with respect, you speak _about_ her with respect. That's not optional."

Then he blinks and he's back in the NICU, months ago, Addison's just arrived, still wearing the pin curls she used to fix in New York, and she's asking for his help. And he's refusing, he's cutting her off at every opportunity, and Dr. Stevens is standing between them. He barely notices her; his attention is on Addison. She's magnetic and she's drawing his gaze and his ire all at once. He forgets about Stevens until she makes an excuse to stumble out of the nursery and away from the estranged married couple who can't seem to stop arguing at work.

Maybe he didn't set the best example.

"I'm sorry," Stevens says, her voice quivering slightly. She looks ashamed; she should be.

Still there's something in the intern's flushing cheeks and the exhausted lines of her face, the way her eyes are bright with unshed tears she's probably hoping he won't notice.

"Dr. Stevens," he says more gently, "maybe she did it because she's your teacher. And she wanted to teach you. You're a student; your job is to learn. And if you want to know what Dr. Shepherd was trying to teach you … maybe you should consider asking her."

Stevens nods and looks desperately relieved when he tilts his chin to indicate she's dismissed.

When he turns back to the NICU he has a momentary jolt of energy, like he's just sipped a coffee, and there's a flash of something red.

He finds Addison back at Julie's side.

"How was Dorie Russell?"

"Happy," Addison says tentatively. "Relieved. Exhausted." Addison pauses. "I, uh, I overheard some of what you said to Stevens."

Derek nods.

"You didn't have to do that."

"She was insubordinate."

"Insubordinate." Addison repeats, shaking her head. "Listen to us, Derek – _god_ , did you ever think we would be the – "

She stops talking, but he gets both her meaning and her discomfort with the term _we._

He's spent his entire career by her side. _They_ were the interns, the young ones, the students. To be attendings, to be charged with teaching brand-new surgeons – it's surreal, still.

"It was Richard's idea," she tells him quietly.

"I figured." He pauses. "Did it work?"

"Did she learn distance, you mean?" She studies her hands for a moment, seeming distracted. "I doubt it. She learned not to trust me, though."

"Addison…"

"Stevens is upset," Addison says after a moment. "Understandably so."

"She can be upset. It doesn't mean she can speak to you like that."

Addison is silent. "Honestly, I'm happy she was speaking to me at all." Off his expression, she makes a face. "I know … how that sounds. But she showed a real flair for my specialty, and before this I was hoping … well, I thought we might be able to … be friends."

Her hands are worrying the ribbon tying the cushion to the glider – knot, un-knot, knot. When she looks up, her expression is rueful.

"… or that at least she might, I don't know, talk to me sometimes. No one else does," she adds quietly.

Derek frowns. That isn't true. Is it?

"I talk to you," he says. "Richard talks to you."

"You barely talk to me, Derek," she corrects him tiredly. "And as for Richard – let's just say I might not be as sour on him as I was thirteen years ago, but I'm not exactly thrilled with him either."

 _It's because of me. No one talks to her because of me._

Addison doesn't say it – she wouldn't, he realizes, but she doesn't need to. It's as clear as the comfort Stevens apparently felt mouthing off to a superior. His treatment of Addison hasn't gone unnoticed in the workplace. She's _Addison_ , unflappable – unstoppable, really – and he's not quite prepared for the look of hurt in her eyes.

 _Don't look and you won't see it._

"I, uh, I went to the bar," she says softly. "I waited for you. But you didn't show."

"I did show," he says.

She raises surprised eyes to meet his. "You did?"

"I did. I went to the bar, but you were already gone."

"Stevens paged me back to the hospital." Her voice is quiet, musing. "I guess we must have just missed each other."

"Right." Derek pauses. "But we're in the same place now."

"Yeah." She's not meeting his eyes.

"Do you … want to get that drink?"

When she looks up at him, her eyes are sparkling. Hopeful, almost. And she nods.

…

"It's not so bad," he says as they wait for the elevator.

"What's not so bad?"

"Being attached," he says, as the elevator doors open. "Being involved."

He presses the lobby button.

"Seems like maybe that's what saved Julie's life," he says.

He sees something – like a flash of red.

 _I don't want to learn distance,_ she cried that night, _I care, what's so terrible about caring? Maybe I shouldn't be a doctor._

 _You're already a doctor,_ that's what he told her, and he held her tightly, absorbed her tears; their intern year was a mess of fluids and failures, wrinkled scrubs and eyes puffy with exhaustion.

 _Then why is it so hard for me to be … distant? What does that mean?_

 _Maybe it means you're a good doctor_ , he said, and her mouth quirked a little into something that, if tears hadn't still been running over her round cheeks, could have been a smile.

"Nitric oxide saved Julie's life," Addison corrects him gently.

"You know there's more to medicine than that," Derek says.

"I know."

She stops talking then as a group of scrub-clad figures walks by, sees them together, and then immediately changes direction.

He can hear whispering voices as they walk away from both Shepherds, occasionally darting glances over their shoulders like the Shepherds are a particularly interesting zoo installation.

 _No one talks to me,_ Addison said in the NICU.

He hears his own words to Stevens: _You don't know why she did it, but you hate her for it anyway. Not really a sensible approach, is it? Or a fair one?_

Then it's Addison's voice he hears: _Please, Derek, you have to give me a chance! You have to give me a chance to explain!_

 _I'm here, I'm more sorry than you could possibly know, but at least I'm talking about it!_

He notices Addison is still looking in the direction of the cluster of residents who passed them by; her gaze drops to the floor and then he touches her arm lightly, redirecting her.

"Let's go to Joe's."

"Right." She nods slowly, still looking distracted.

He pauses in front of the sliding glass doors, before they can open into the cold. "You saved Julie's life," he tells her, "and as for distance … well, Dorie Russell is lucky you moved to Seattle for her quints."

"I didn't."

He glances over at her, surprised by the intensity in her tone.

"I care about the quints, of course I do, but still, that's – work. You're my family, Derek," she says softly, and now her tone is more exhausted than intense. "I moved to Seattle for _you_."

Her eyes are sparkling with unshed tears.

He opens his mouth to respond, then hears footsteps. Another cluster of residents approaching. He gestures toward the door before Addison can see them. "We should, uh …"

"… get that drink," she finishes before he can.

"Right."

…

The bells on the door jingle as it swings open, and then shut again.

"The Doctors Shepherd!" Joe greets them cheerfully. "Back again." He glances at Addison. "Another round?"

"Yes, please."

Joe turns to Derek. "Double scotch, single malt?"

He nods.

It's hectic inside the bar, groups of tired-looking faces he recognizes, by sight, from the hospital, though not anyone he feels he needs to greet. The speakers are humming a scratchy Christmas carol; he watches darts whizz their way to the board on the other side of the room.

He turns back when Joe slides two drinks across the bar.

Derek takes a sip, then notices Addison's glass mug – whatever's in it is steaming and fragrant.

"What are you drinking?"

"Um … hot buttered rum." She laughs a little, blotting her mouth with a paper napkin. "It's delicious."

"It's Dickensian." He shakes his head and she smiles, tilting her head.

"Well, you know, it's Christmas."

"I do know." He takes his tumbler and gestures toward an empty table near the front of the bar. "You want to sit?"

She nods, and themselves sitting at the same table she vacated earlier. Her catalogue is still there.

He sees her cheeks pinken just slightly when she notices the catalogue. "I, uh, must have…" Her voice trails off. "It's silly."

He doesn't answer.

"Anyway." She closes the catalogue and he sees her examine the wilted back cover, which seems to have absorbed moisture – hopefully water, possibly beer or worse – from the table. Apparently thinking better of it, she sets the catalogue back down on the table, but purposefully pushes it away.

"Red plaid," Derek says.

"Red plaid?"

"Get the red plaid one," Derek continues. "You circled the listing, and you have an _x_ under green, an x under the red plaid, and an x under the blue plaid. You're trying to decide."

"Maybe I wanted to get all of them."

"No." He shakes his head. "If you wanted to get all of them, there would be check marks under each color. _X_ means you're deciding. _X_ means you don't know yet what x equals."

The corner of her mouth quirks. "You remember."

"Well, it was drilled into me." He takes a sip of his drink. "It's not the kind of system you forget."

"Red plaid," she says slowly.

He nods. "Red plaid," he repeats.

"Okay, then." She opens to the page seemingly by memory, and places a check mark underneath the red plaid square.

He notices her empty glass.

"Refill?"

"I probably shouldn't. It's loaded with sugar."

"It's Christmas," he reminds her.

Her face twitches slightly. "Okay, sure. Thank you. Um, Derek?"

He turns back.

"Tell Joe it's for me, okay?"

"I was already planning to," he teases her, "I don't need to be associated with that order."

She makes a face at him, but there's something else behind her expression – a strain.

Slightly puzzled, but choosing to leave it for now, he makes his way toward Joe.

The bartender greets him with a friendly smile. "Two more?"

"Yes, please." Derek leans against the bar. "You have a crowd here."

"I do have a crowd." Joe looks amused. "Holidays. Some people need a bar more than ever this time of year. It gets to them, you know?"

"I guess." Derek glances back to the table where Addison is still sitting, face partially hidden behind a curtain of red hair.

"Had someone in here earlier telling me Christmas depresses the hell out of them. Hates holidays."

Derek nods.

"Suicide rates, you know, they spike around the holidays."

"That's a myth, actually." Derek fumbles in his pocket for his blackberry. "Suicide rates, believe it or not, go down during the holidays."

"Huh." Joe seems intrigued. "I didn't know that, even with all that medical training from running this bar."

Derek shakes his head, amused.

"They drink a lot though, during the holidays."

Derek nods with agreement.

"And you, you're in a bar." Joe smiles a little at him. "You and the missus. You protesting Christmas too?"

"No, we love Christmas," he says, automatically, before he can stop himself, a little surprised at the words that come out.

Joe doesn't say anything, just glances over at Addison's table.

Derek watches him mix the drink, amused by Addison's festively old-fashioned order. As much as he teased Addison, he's not actually sure what goes into hot buttered rum. He sees Joe whirring foam into a fragrant mix of things – and then zesting citrus, which smells fresh and crisp. He adds a dark liquid whose scent is immediately recognizable: cider, and it's steaming.

"When do you add the rum?" Derek asks, curious.

Joe still has his back to him, and probably didn't hear his question.

"The trick," Joe says, turning around without looking at him, "is the strength of the cider."

He sets the glass down on the bar.

"Here you go. Hot buttered rum for the other Dr. Shepherd, just like the doctor ordered."

"But you didn't put any rum in it." Derek says, confused. "I watched you make it."

He doesn't answer.

"Joe?" Derek prods. "Aren't you going to add rum?"

"Don't wait around and let it get cold," Joe says, moving the drink a bit closer to Derek.

"No, I, uh, I won't." But Derek just stands there, mind swirling like the top of the warm drink he's wrapped his hand around. No rum, then.

 _But that means …_

Slowly, as if in a dream, he lifts the drink.

"Hey, doc?"

He looks at the bartender.

"Guess your timing wasn't too bad tonight after all."

Derek turns back toward the table where Addison is sitting. Is that an extra brightness he sees in her eyes, a flush to her skin?

Joe is right. For once … it seems his timing is right on point.

* * *

 _... and that's how it could have happened. God, I love these two, especially on Christmas, the high holiest day of Addek fandom. This started with a play on Derek's poor timing and developed into an exploration of some of their relationship history. Around the time of this episode, Derek is not that far from the Addison-is-my-family protest, and maybe needed a little push, whether from his own speech to Izzie or from her reminder of his intern time with Addison, to see her as human again, and to realize that he hasn't given her a chance to explain (or to tell the whole truth, as we viewers know now, but script flips are short-term). And the insinuation of the fat happy baby she's brewing? Well, that's just the jingle on top of the Addek Christmas bells. Thank you so much for reading this Addek-indulgent project and Merry Christmas! I would love to know what you think, so please review!_


	25. No Reason in the World

**A/N:** Happy new year! I'm sorry I haven't updated in so long. It's been a whirlwind 2018 so far, starting with flying into JFK in the wake of the crazy snow. Oops. And I have a _lot_ of updates in the queue for all my works in progress. They're coming, I promise. (Especially Some Bright Morning - I can't believe how long overdue that one is.) Let's start with this one, which was requested by **Addison-fan**. I fell in love with the prompt, and it was only through supreme self-control that I made it a flip instead of a WIP. Every Addek knows 2.03, the episode where they argue over the preemie while an uncomfortable Izzie watches. It's the episode that gave us "my favorite sheets," and the lifelong Addek obsession with paisley. It's the famous "I don't know what the third option is. I just know I still love you." And it's the episode where Derek agrees to operate on the little metaphor preemie as long as she makes it through the night. Maybe she did, and they operated. And then maybe this happened.

* * *

 **No Reason in the World  
** _(2.03, "Make Me Lose Control")_

* * *

"Is she … waking up?"

"She is." Addison smiles, some of the exhaustion, the frayed nerves from the tense surgery, starting to melt away as she watches the baby start to stir. "In fact," she tells Stevens, gesturing for the intern to don a fresh pair of gloves. "If you put your … there we go."

Stevens is smiling too, almost shyly. "She has a good grip."

"She really does."

 _And now she has a fighting chance._

Addison glances at the intern. "Nice work in there, Dr. Stevens."

"Thank you for, uh, for letting me assist." Stevens shifts uncomfortably, the smile dropping from her face. "I mean, thank you."

Addison sighs – internally. It's natural for Stevens to feel torn, she supposes, between interest in a specialty where she shows promise and loyalty to the friend she's made in Grey. Certainly, loyalty is an admirable quality.

To an extent.

"Dr. Stevens …"

But the intern's pager goes off before Addison can summon any words of wisdom.

"It's Bailey," Stevens says. "I need to go."

"Right." Addison folds her arms and watches her leave.

..

..

She stays with the baby until the NICU nurses surround her for vitals; confirming she's stable, and then she leaves a capable OB resident in charge with strict instructions to stay by the isolette.

And then she lets out the breath she's fairly sure she's been holding since she scrubbed in.

A tense surgery. A fragile preemie. An incredibly gifted surgeon who managed to remove the invasive mass threatening the baby's life.

… who just happens to be her husband.

And just happens to be standing outside the NICU.

He's in three-quarters profile and doesn't seem to see her, studying a chart.

"Derek," she says tentatively.

He turns around, but doesn't respond.

"Thank you … for operating on her."

Briefly, he nods. "I told you I would operate if she gained more strength overnight."

His meaning is clear.

 _It wasn't personal._

She schools her face, trying to pretend she can do the same.

Make it _not personal_ with the man whose ring she's worn for eleven years.

"She's, uh, she's doing well."

Derek glances at her, his face unreadable. "Good," he says, then closes the chart and strides down the hall

Addison folds her arms again and watches another person walk away from her.

..

..

He's exhausted, with tension in his neck he associates with this type of surgery.

It worked.

For now, anyway – not that Addison likes to hear _for now_ , and he didn't push it, just acknowledged that the surgery, this first of many, was a success.

He rubs the ache in his neck with one hand.

It's late. The trailer seems far, too far, right now, and he's planning to be back at seven anyway. He closes himself in an on-call room, feeling the sting of time, and lets sleep overtake him.

He feels more like himself in the morning after a shower – and a quick word with the nursing staff tells him their tiny patient survived the night; if he knows Addison, she stayed by her side.

In New York, he would have pried her from the NICU, convinced her to get some actual sleep.

But this is Seattle; he doesn't ask where she is and no one tells him.

Instead, he gathers charts, talks to the resident who updates him on one of his other cases, and moves about his day. He'll handle the baby's post-op in a few hours, but there's a multitude of tasks to keep him busy until then.

He's passing the nurse's desk when a woman approaches him holding a thick file. He doesn't recognize her; she has a red and white visitor's badge on the lapel of her rather worn-looking trench coat.

"Dr. Shepherd, do you have a moment?" She smiles nervously before he can answer. "I'm Lynn Roebling, I'm the social worker assigned to the child whose surgery you – "

"Of course."

Derek greets her, leads her to a caucus room and catches her up in layman's terms on the baby's health. He recalls the tiny, fragile body; the agonizingly careful work on an impossible small spine.

"Are there plans for the baby?" he asks. "Afterwards, when she's recovering?"

He asks the question he knows Addison would, if she were here – it's strange that she's not, especially when she seemed attached to the baby, and she's still the primary on the file – but she must have been pulled onto a new case.

"Yes, we've – well, we've been able to put a foster arrangement in place," the social worker says, glancing at the file in her arms.

"Really?" He's surprised. And relieved. In his experience, it's not exactly easy to get medically experienced foster placements for medically fragile wards of the state.

"Yes. I just assumed you knew." The social worker – Lynn, was that her name? – looks confused.

"No." Derek shakes his head. "I didn't know. But I'm glad to hear it. That's good news. That's very good." He pauses. "The foster parents are aware that the baby is premature, addicted to narcotics … "

"…and that the surgery was successful." The social worker smiles.

"The initial surgery was successful, yes," Derek says, wanting to make sure expectations are realistic. "But she'll need another one in six months or so. She's susceptible to seizures, other limitations based on her prematurity … she'll need a foster parent who has some medical background."

"We understand that," Lynn assures him. "That's why we're so lucky to have found this arrangement."

"I'd like to meet the foster parent, if that's all right with you."

The social worker looks slightly confused again, by his request – odd, but perhaps she's new. Or at least new to medically fragile preemies.

"There are some aspects of the baby's care I'd like to discuss with the foster parents," he explains. "And actually, I should check on her on the way."

The social worker doesn't respond.

"Would you like to see her?" he asks kindly, reminding himself that everyone is new at their job at some point.

"Um – sure," the social worker says.

They walk together to the NICU.

Addison is already there.

Inside the little nursery, the impossible small baby is cradled in Addison's arms. She's sitting in the glider, a curtain of red hair hiding her face, and doesn't seem to notice they're watching.

He glances at the social worker, then back to Addison and the baby.

The preemie is wrapped in a soft-looking crocheted blanket – in every NICU in Derek's career, or really in Addison's, there have been seemingly endless teams of elderly women who knit and crochet for the premature babies whose bodies struggle to get warm. This blanket is pink and white, a chevron pattern that would be cheerful on a healthy baby, he thinks … but he knows that under the blanket, under bandages and a sterile white bunting, is the opening in her spine where he tried to save her life.

He watches as Addison pushes off the floor lightly with one rubber clog, moving the glider – she must have been more distracted than usual after surgery; she rarely spends more time in OR clogs than she can help. Somewhere in the attendings' lounge, he knows, a pair of three-inch heels is waiting for their mistress.

The preemie …

 _She has no one. She needs someone to fight for her._

No wonder Addison has been out of contact. He knows how time disappears when she's holding a baby. The way it does every time. The contrast between her sometimes sharp, always perfect professional persona and the way she melts around her tiny patients always got to him.

But that was in the past.

 _I don't know what the third option is. I just know that I still love you._

Addison is still so immersed in the baby that she doesn't seem to notice Derek and the social worker standing outside the window.

"Dr. Shepherd?" the social worker asks tentatively.

He blinks.

"I, uh, I should get Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd before we go," Derek says, gesturing toward the nursery. "She'll want to meet the baby's new foster mother too."

The social worker looks confused.

"Dr. Shepherd … she _is_ the baby's new foster mother."

..

..

The next few moments are a blur –

A visible one, a blur of red hair and pink blanket.

A verbal one, the social worker's words fading in and out of his shaky consciousness.

 _Extraordinary circumstances_

 _Medical expertise_

 _Able to speed her through._

"I don't understand," he mumbles.

"They were able to speed her through," the social worker repeats. "Because – "

"Right." Derek waves her off with an assurance he'll keep her posted on any medical changes and then forces himself to push through the swinging door.

Addison is still seemingly absorbed by the bundle in her arms.

 _Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd_ is _the baby's foster mother._

He watches his shadow fall across her lap before he speaks.

"Congratulations," he says, unable to keep a little bite out of his voice. How many times is she planning to pull the rug out from under him?

She doesn't respond.

"We're still legally married, Addison. Were you planning to give me a little notice, or …?"

"I'm sorry," she says without looking up, her voice soft and honeyed like she's still talking to the baby. "I meant to say something, Derek, it's just … all of that sort of … disappeared when they put her in my arms."

The tone of her voice is getting to him despite his best efforts. Its gentle cadence isn't her usual; it's directed to soft pink nursery walls and sterile isolettes. The voice belongs to the baby.

Finally, she glances up. Her eyes are liquid, their color impossible to place, and a smile is playing around her lips.

"Okay." He crouches down next to the glider. "Okay. But we still need to figure some things out."

"I know." She gestures vaguely with her chin. "I have papers."

"Papers?"

"I brought papers. And I talked to a lawyer already; there are ways to do this without risk to you. You won't have to worry about any responsibility for the baby."

 _For the baby._

He realizes what _papers_ means. He takes a moment to catch his breath, and then he nods. "All right. I should … talk to the lawyer."

Addison is gazing down at the bundle in her arms again. "I'll ask her to recommend someone for you," she says distractedly.

"Can't I talk to yours?" he asks.

"She said something about different interests, or …" Addison's voice trails off.

"Are our interests different?"

"I don't know. Derek, I'm sorry … I'm having trouble focusing on anything that isn't this little girl." Her voice softens again and she pushes off from the floor, rocking softly.

He nods, standing up again. "Just – send me her contact information."

..

..

 _Different interests._

"Is it true that Addison's fostering the baby you operated on?"

He nearly drops the file he's holding. "How did you – "

"It's a hospital, Derek." Meredith raises an eyebrow. "News travels fast. Especially news like this."

"It's true," he admits.

"Okay, then." She adjusts the charts in her arms. "So … what does that mean?"

"What do you mean, what does it mean?"

"I mean, _what does it mean_?" She exhales when he doesn't respond. "Derek, you're married."

"Separated."

"Separated by a hallway! You're still legally married."

She waits – for him to deny it, perhaps, but it's true, so all he does is nod.

"So, does that mean you're fostering the baby too?"

"No, of course not," he says quickly. "She signed, Meredith. She signed, and all that's left is for me to sign, and to work out some … details, and then the lawyers will file the papers and that's that."

"Oh." She nods. "Okay. So when does that happen?"

"When does what happen?"

"The signing. The details. The filing."

"I just have to pick up the papers from her, and then I can sign them."

Meredith studies him for a moment.

"Oh … just that," she repeats, a trace of something in her voice he's not sure he wants to explore.

..

..

She's holding the folder with one manicured hand and tracing its surface with the other. Nervous hand gestures, the way her fingers always dance over something.

"We should talk about this," he says.

It's not lost on him how many times he's heard her utter those words.

"Okay," Addison says slowly, and he's embarrassed to realize it's more than he offered, too many times to recall.

"What happened to _I just know I still love you?_ "

The words come out before he can stop them.

"I do still love you." She's not looking at him, shifting the papers from one hand to the other – it's so her, she always has to be doing something with her hands – and then when she raises her eyes to meet his they're shining with tears.

"Addison."

"No, Derek, I mean it, but the thing is … ." She pauses, draws a deep breath. "I was looking for something," she says finally. "With Mark, with you again, when I got here, you know, and … I didn't realize it, Derek, I really didn't, not until now. But I think this baby is what I was looking for."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying … that I signed," she says softly, and the folder falls open. "You just have to sign, and then …"

" _You sign first," she teased him at the city clerk's office; it was raining and her hair was curling around her face in the way she didn't like and he did. "You sign and then I'll sign," she said, and he teased her back, "no, you sign and then I'll sign," and they both laughed and it sounded like the rest of their lives._

He blinks back to the present to see that she's looking at him.

Her expression makes him realize – as has happened often over the years – that she's thinking the same thing.

Her lips part and then close again as if she's thought better of whatever she was going to say. "I'm … going to be staying in town for a while," she says finally, softly. "There's a twelve-week foster observation period before I can apply to adopt her officially."

He nods, and she hands him the papers.

..

..

"So, Addison's fostering a baby." Meredith sips her drink.

"Addison's fostering a baby."

 _All of that sort of … disappeared when they put her in my arms._

"I always thought you'd be a good father."

"What?" He nearly spits out a mouthful of scotch and has to grab for the stack of paper napkins on the bar.

Meredith looks pensive, apparently not put off by his spit take. "Did you ever think about it? Having a kid, I mean."

For a long moment he just stares at the bar, the grain at its surface, the stray cocktail straw bisecting a patch of something sticky.

"We weren't ready," he says finally.

"Right."

"I'm fine," he says. "Just … it's been a long day."

"Let's go," she suggests. "I've only had one. I'll drive."

He nods tiredly. "Okay. I'll settle up."

He fumbles in his bag, and the folder of papers drops to the ground.

She crouches down to help him.

"No, I have it, Meredith – "

But it's too late.

"You didn't sign."

He closes his eyes briefly.

"You _didn't sign_?"

"Meredith …"

"I'm not doing this." She grabs for her coat.

"Meredith, wait."

He catches up to her outside Joe's. The wind is kicking up and she's angry, he knows, but it's hard to look too furious when your hair is blowing in your face. She looks angrier when he smiles.

" _Don't._ "

"Don't what?"

"Don't try to – charm me or – whatever, Derek, I mean it." She takes a step back. "I'm done."

"You're not done."

"I'm done," she repeats, and it sounds less like a game than before. "Derek, what _is_ it with her?"

"With …"

" _Addison_ ," she says impatiently. "With Addison. Your wife. She sleeps with your best friend, and you don't divorce her. She _adopts a kid_ while you're still married – "

"Fosters," he corrects faintly.

" – while you're still married," Meredith repeats stubbornly, "and she even signs the papers herself and you _still_ don't sign!"

"Meredith …"

"No, forget it. I don't want to know. Or actually…" she pauses for a moment. "You know what? I do know. I already know, because I'm – here, and you're you. And that's the problem."

He's confused.

"You've lost me," he admits.

Meredith stares at him for a moment. "I know," she says quietly.

..

..

Addison is tucking the baby back into the isolette when he reaches the nursery. The lights are slightly dimmed; it's quiet

"How's she doing?" he asks.

"She's doing really well."

"Good." He looks at the machines attached to the isolette and then sees Addison's gaze drifting to the folder sticking out of his briefcase.

"Did you sign?" she asks casually. "I told my lawyer I'd – "

"No."

He doesn't elaborate.

"Oh." She glances over at him. "Was there something wrong with the way they were drawn up, or … ?"

He doesn't answer

"Derek?"

He moves closer to the isolette in lieu of answering.

"I just came here to check on … " he looks down at the baby. "Does she have a name?"

"I've been calling her Louisa," Addison admits.

"Louisa?" He raises an eyebrow.

"It's a warrior's name," she says, her voice soft and a little defensive. "It means _fighter_ , and this baby … is a fighter."

"Louisa," he repeats. "It's a lot of name for such a little baby."

"I sort of … shortened it. To, um, to Lulu." Addison's mouth twitches, as if she's daring him to question her.

"Lulu." He nods. "I like it. It suits her." He snaps on a fresh pair of gloves and gestures toward the isolette. "Can I …"

"Of course."

"She's stronger." He checks the read on the machines a moment later, then continues his exam. "She's getting stronger."

He hears his own voice, laced with wonder.

 _There's no reason in the world why she should be stronger._

He sees Addison's expression and realizes that, once more, she's remembering the same thing.

And then he hears her voice, again.

 _She needs someone to fight for her._

He looks from the tiny baby to Addison, who's gazing into the isolette with one hand resting on its edge.

She glances up as if she can feel his gaze. "What?" she asks slowly.

"Nothing." He looks from the baby to Addison again. "Just … I guess she found someone to fight for her."

Addison blinks. "Maybe we both did," she says.

He extends a hand into the isolette, letting the baby – Lulu – grasp his finger. She has a really good grip.

 _Maybe we all did._

* * *

 ** _Addek Revolution 2018?_** _Thank you for the prompt, Addison-fan! For those wondering, her prompt was Addison adopting the preemie, which is the catalyst for a reconciliation. That reconciliation started here. And I can't promise I won't expand this. I might have already started outlining. Because hey, it may be a new year, but I'm still the same old Addek trash. Thank you for reading, for indulging my love of Addek, and for always being so generous with reviews. Keep it up and review? Thank you thank you thank you!_


	26. We Will Drink Wine

**A/N:** Okay, it's insane that I haven't flipped a script in six months. I'm sorry! You have left awesome suggestions and I appreciate them all. There was a point when I thought this project was fading out, but today I got a strong urge to write of **MrLelli** 's prompts: Mark and Derek go to Connecticut for Bizzy's funeral. So here's the thing. This is one of my favorite AU concept. Xyliette has a gorgeous version, and I shamelessly begged LittleBlackDresses to write one too. (And she did, and it's awesome, and it's in my Favorites, long live the Addek Revolution!) I think I once did a charity thing where FlipFlopDiva was going to write me one too! Basically, I'm obsessed, and I should be satisfied. But I couldn't get it out of my head, and I wanted to see if I could do something different with it. Maybe it's because 2018 Winter, unlike 2011-2013 Winter, has poked around in the dark waters of non-Addison Grey's. I actually watched the Season 6 episode where Derek reveals that he knows Mark slept with Addison in Los Angeles. And that was such a brutal and sad part of her history. (As every Addison fan knows, even for a character who was beat up consistently for ... ten years? ... "I'm sorry, Red" was a rough, rough moment.) But there are two moments in Season 6 that are pivotal for me: Addison's arrival in _Blink_ , when Derek actually greets her in a friendly, non-jerky way when she shows up for Sloan Sloan's fetal surgery. And then the episode a few later when Derek, Mark, and Owen are playing office basketball and Derek lets out that Meredith told him that Lexie told _her_ that Mark slept with Addison in LA. Whew.

So, it's like the confluence of all my favorite things: Mark and Addison's equally depressing comfort-sex history, Derek actually remembering that he used to be married to Addison, and Addison's insanely screwed up family history. And there's nothing I love more than trying to force these three to deal with thier complicated history. So I thought I would try to come at it from a slightly different angle. I haven't decided yet where I want to go with it, only that - sorry - I'm probably going to continue it. I promised myself no new WIPs until I finished some of the old ones, but with Where Have I Gone all wrapped up, and Some Bright Morning and The Climbing Way next, my WIP fingers are itching.

Oh, and the title is from the really lovely and haunting song that played during Bizzy's funeral, "We Will Drink Wine," by Seinking Ships. That's not a typo.

Long, long intro to say: here is what could be the end or the beginning, and I hope you will read and let me know what you think. The thing is, maybe Mark and Derek didn't know Bizzy had died. Fine. But maybe they found out, and it went like this:

* * *

 **We Will Drink Wine**  
( _Private Practice 4.14, "Home Again"_ )

* * *

 _..  
Winter 2009_  
 _Seattle_

"How's Addison?"

Derek is confused; the question is a non sequitur if he's ever heard one. Dr. Bailey works hard, and she has a young child who keeps her busy, but surely her memory isn't weakened enough for her to forget a more than three-year-old divorce.

"Addison? Do you mean Meredith?"

Now Bailey looks confused. "If I meant Meredith, I would have said Meredith, Shepherd. And I know how Meredith is. I saw Meredith twenty minutes ago."

"You saw Meredith twenty minutes ago," he repeats, still trying to get his bearing.

"I saw Meredith twenty minutes ago. Meredith is fine."

"That's … good," he says.

"Shepherd." Bailey tilts her head. "Have you always been this slow?"

"Excuse me," he frowns, only half amused.

"Look. I have patients," Bailey says. "I have surgeries. And I know you do too. And it's very early, and I've only had two coffees. I just wanted to know how Addison is doing."

"I have no idea how Addison is doing," Derek shakes his head. "Why are you asking?"

Now Bailey looks even more confused. "Sam made it seem unexpected," she says.

"Made what seem unexpected?"

"Her mother. Her mother died. I should give you my condolences too, Shepherd; I know it's been a few years, but you must have known her well."

Derek blinks. Bizzy, dead? That's impossible. He's heard her, more than once, declare her immortality as a never-fail strategy for keeping her jewelry out of her daughter's hands … and control of the Symphony Board out of Tiff Prescott's hands.

 _Tiff Prescott_. He didn't realize he remembered that name. He used to wonder if his mother-in-law purposefully only associated with women whose names were as strange as hers.

That sounds Bizzy-like: in his experience, Bizzy is strategic. Bizzy is shrewd. Bizzy is … well, cold.

But Bizzy isn't dead.

"Shepherd."

He glances up, distracted.

"You didn't know," Bailey says quietly. "I'm sorry. I just assumed – "

"No, it's fine." His heart is louder than it should be, but it's fine. "How did you – "

"Sam," Bailey says simply. "Bennett," she adds, unnecessarily, as if Derek's slowness on the uptake this morning means he's forgotten his entire previous life. "We stayed in touch, after we met, it turns out some of his research on – "

She stops.

"Shepherd, are you all right?"

Is he all right?

Of course he's all right.

The mother-in-law he never liked is dead.

Ex-mother-in-law, whatever.

"I'm fine. I just – didn't know," he tells Bailey.

"Yes, I got that impression." Bailey pauses. "Well. I'll let you get back to work. But, Shepherd? When you talk to Addison, tell her we're all thinking of her."

He nods distractedly, halfway down the hall before he realizes Bailey said _when_ , not _if_.

Bizzy, dead.

He had no idea.

Why would he, though?

It's not like he's in regular contact with his ex-wife. She called, after he was shot, after he woke up. Their conversation was brief – he wasn't exactly in a position to catch up, and she only seemed to want to check that he was alive.

 _You're not dead._

She was here, in Seattle, for Mark's grandchild. He saw her, briefly. And then Mark was in Los Angeles, where he apparently got reacquainted with Addison.

And then Mark came back to Seattle, and went back to Lexie, but he supposes they might have stayed in touch.

After all, Mark called Addison when Sloan's unborn baby needed surgery.

 _He called her when he needed her_.

It's not even eight o'clock. He'll ask Mark, when he sees him.

"Have you talked to Addison?" he asks, without preamble, when he finds Mark outside the attendings' locker room.

"No," Mark says, "but I'm single, remember?"

"I'm not asking if you slept with her," he says, a little annoyed.

"Yeah?" Mark is flipping a page of the chart he's holding. "Good. Is _she_ asking, though? Because – "

"Addison's mother died," Derek interrupts, not sure he wants to hear the rest of the sentence.

"Bizzy died?" Mark's eyes widen. "Really?"

"Really."

Mark closes the chart. "You talked to Addison?"

He shakes his head. "Bailey told me about Bizzy."

"No, I mean – lately. Have you talked to Addison lately? Did she call, or …?"

It's a version of the same question he asked Mark, and now he's confused. "She called," he says slowly. "After, she called."

He doesn't say, _after I was shot._ He doesn't need to.

"Other than the _glad you're not dead_ call, I mean," Mark says, never one to mince words. He did help Derek field a few of those calls. His sisters. Some former colleagues back in New York who heard about the shooting.

"No. But … I saw her here," Derek says, almost triumphant now, remembering. "For Sloan Sloan's surgery"

Mark looks away for a moment; Derek takes advantage of the silence to remember a little more about the interaction. He didn't know Mark had called her, not until she just … appeared, at the nurse's station.

Her hair was still short.

He glanced up, saw her, and did a double take. _What year is it?_

But he did see her.

"Oh. Right. Did you talk to her then?" Mark asks.

Derek considers the question.

 _Hey, look who's here!_

He talked to her. Didn't he? He has some recollection of it, that her perfume was the same when he kissed her cheek in friendly-professional greeting and that she seemed slightly confused. Maybe it was strange for her to be back. He's not sure; he never asked.

 _She's perkier than usual_ , Addison commented.

 _Divorce'll do that to you_ , Callie responded, and there was a brief half second of uncomfortable silence. He's not sure whether she felt it too.

But he spoke to her: _Good to see you_ , he said. He's pretty sure she said it back. Lots of things have changed, lots of things are different, but Addison not returning a polite greeting – that won't have changed.

So he saw her, and he spoke to her.

Fine, it was brief; she left to check out her patient. It was a busy day and he didn't see her again. Didn't think about her again until weeks later, when Meredith lifted an eyebrow and murmured, _Lexie told me something._

 _Good to see you._ That's talking. He said hello.

"I talked to her."

Mark doesn't respond.

"I said hello," he admits.

Mark takes a step closer. "No, I mean – you haven't talked to Addison since she was here?"

"I already said I haven't." Derek cuts him off before he can continue. "And in case you've forgotten, I already know that you _have_ … talked to her … since then."

Mark has the good grace to look the slightest bit rueful. Just for a moment, and someone who's spent less time with him than Derek has might miss it.

Was it … already a year ago now, as interim chief, nothing like what he thought it would be, shooting miniaturized baskets in his office with Mark and Owen while Mark complained that Lexie dumped him.

… _which is why you went back to sleeping with my ex-wife?_

Mark didn't look particularly rueful then. _Wait a sec. You're remarried. What do you care?_

Derek frowns, remembering his response: _I'm just saying._

There's a pause while, Derek assumes, they both recall that exchange.

"So you haven't talked to her since then."

"No, Mark, do you want me to sign an affidavit?"

Mark holds up a hand, all innocence. "Bizzy's dead," he repeats after a moment. He looks grim.

"Yeah."

"We should do something," Mark says.

"Send flowers," Derek suggests automatically, the results of eleven years of marital training.

Mark shakes his head. "We should go."

"Go where?"

"Go to the funeral," Mark says.

"The funeral." Derek frowns. "It's in Connecticut. Or it must be, assuming she has a funeral."

Mark looks skeptical, and Derek can't blame him. Bizzy, not have a funeral? He'd more likely expect her to request a pyre at the next Junior League meeting, possibly including Tiff Prescott in the flames.

Mark still looks like he's waiting for an answer.

"You want to just – pick up and fly to Connecticut?" Derek frowns.

"I can reschedule my patients," Mark says. "Bailey told you, right? She might know the details."

"Well, I'm starting a clinical trial," Derek says after a moment. "It's not a good time to leave town."

"I guess Bizzy should have picked a more convenient time to die," Mark says drily. "Maybe if you'd told her about the clinical trial, she would have held off a little longer."

He realizes he doesn't even know the cause of death.

"Who says she would want us there?" he asks, finally.

Reasonably.

Not quite sure if he means Addison or Bizzy.

Before Mark can respond, a merciful page interrupts the uncomfortable conversation

"Derek…." Mark calls as he's walking away, and he turns around.

"What?"

"You always go to the funeral," Mark says, so quietly Derek almost doesn't hear it at all.

..  
 _Spring 1981_  
 _East Hadley, Connecticut_

"Have you decided whether you want to go tonight, sweetheart?"

Derek shrugs a little. He's been Keeping Busy all afternoon, since he got home from practice, like he remembers his mom doing. Helping Amy with her finger paints, fixing the loose knob on the cabinets, and now washing up the last of the dinner dishes in the kitchen while he squints out the window at the setting sun.

It's been weird at school since the accident. Mrs. Birch was young, that's what everyone keeps saying. He guesses it's true, at least for a teacher. He knows she has two kids, even younger than Amy. She used to stay after school anyway, though, when Derek was having a hard time with algebra. He confessed to her that he wanted to be a doctor, but he was worried he wouldn't make it through calculus if he couldn't master algebra. Mrs. Birch said calculus was a few years away, and she knew he could do it.

"Do I have to go?" he asks, hating that he sounds like a little kid, asking his mom a question like that.

"No," his mother says. "It's up to you. I know funerals are … difficult."

His mother picks up one of the dishes he's just washed and starts drying it with a red dishcloth. "You remember what your dad used to say?" she asks, rubbing a water spot out of the plate. "You always go to the funeral," she recites quietly.

Derek doesn't respond.

"I remember, I was pregnant with you when his old business partner died. Mike McLean, of course you won't remember him, but Liz and Kathy do. He was a bit older, but he's the one who helped Dad get set up in the store. He wasn't sick or anything like that, and it was … surprising. It was sad. I didn't want to go. I didn't want to be sad." She sets the dry dish down on the counter and picks up another from the rack. "Your father said, 'you always go to the funeral.' It was something his father said to him, when he didn't want – and he remembered it."

Derek considers this.

"Funerals are hard," his mother says gently. "No one ever wants to go. No one wants to be there."

"Did you go?" he asks finally, in spite of himself.

"I did go. Dad and I both did. And you did too," his mother says, smiling fondly at him, "since you went everywhere I went. And I'm glad we did."

Derek fiddles with the corner of the yellow sponge.

"You've known Mrs. Birch a while," his mother says. "I know you liked her, and she liked you. I know it will be hard to go. But no, you don't have to go."

Derek glances up at her.

"But maybe you can," his mother continues. "I think it will mean something to her family, if you do."

"They won't even notice," he mumbles. "Lots of people will be there."

His mother doesn't answer for a moment, picking up another dish to dry instead.

"I noticed," she says finally. "At your father's funeral, I noticed."

Derek's eyes are starting to feel hot the way they do when someone mentions his dad.

"If everyone had said, well, other people will be there … maybe no one would have shown up."

That seems so strange. Showing up is what people do, in Derek's experience. A year ago, people showed up. Coming to the church, knocking on the door with casseroles and offers to baby-sit his little sister or drive him to his activities.

"I'm not going to push you," his mother says. "It's your decision."

Ten minutes later, when he's in his coat and scarf and he's called Mark's house to say they're coming by to pick him up, his mother doesn't say anything at all – just squeezes his shoulder a little when they walk out to the car.

..  
 _Winter 2009_  
 _Seattle_

He finds Mark at the same nurse's station where he saw him earlier, lounging on the desk in a way that suggests an attractive woman is nearby.

 _I really don't mind,_ that's what she said. _Of course you should do what you need to do._

Mark glances over when Derek approaches.

"I thought you were going to Connecticut."

"I am," Mark says. "My flight leaves in an hour."

"An hour." Derek shakes his head. Mark has never considered little things like security and lines to be impediments to his schedule.

"Did you just come to find out my travel plans?"

"No." Derek glances down at his pager, as if waiting to be saved by the bell.

Nothing.

"I came to, uh, to see if there might be room for one more on the plane."

"Actually, the flight is sold out."

"Oh."

So he won't be accompanying him after all.

Derek tries to gauge how he feels. He was looking for a reason not to go, wasn't he? So he should be relieved that he can't go.

When he meets Mark's eyes, he can't quite read the other man's expression.

"I bought the last two seats," Mark says.

Derek's eyes widen. "You knew I would – "

"You're predictable."

"I'm not predictable."

"You're a little predictable." Mark winks at the brunette nurse he was talking to earlier, who flushes pink at his attention, and then turns back to Derek looking rather self-satisfied.

 _You always go to the funeral._

"Thanks," he mutters, concentrating on his blackberry so he doesn't have to meet Mark's eye.

"Don't mention it." Mark checks his watch. "We should go. And, uh, we should probably talk on the way."

"Talk on the way." Derek frowns. "Why?"

"I'll tell you in the car." Mark glances down the hall as if checking for listeners. "It's about Bizzy," he says.

Derek is still processing the information as he and Mark match each other's stride through the airport, Mark flashing his platinum or whatever it is status sufficient times to sail them through security. It's a bit like what he recalls of traveling with Addison, just without the high heels.

Bizzy, a lesbian.

"You're saying the Captain knew about it?"

"Right. I already told you." Mark pushes ahead of him to flash his ticket and a toothy smile at the pretty flight attendant waiting at the entrance to the gangway.

Bizzy, a lesbian.

Fine.

That's not where he's stuck.

It's the Captain knowing about it.

 _Cheating is in my blood, Derek. Look at the Captain. Look at Archie._

He remembers shaking his head, trying to convince her: _I don't think cheating is genetic._

She threw back the rest of her gin & tonic at that. _Let's hope not_ , she said.

It's the Captain knowing about it, and letting her lie for him anyway.

Well.

 _Letting._

That takes the revelation from shocking …

To devastating.

Maybe all the way to downright pathological.

..  
 _Fall 1989_  
 _New York City_

"Addie, wait."

She's walking fast, even for her.

"I have to study."

"So do I, we're studying together, aren't we?"

She doesn't answer, just keeps walking. He has to speed up to match her pace. In a little over a year, he's become well acquainted with his girlfriend's quirks, and one of them is that her normally quick footsteps get even faster when she's upset. She's walking fast across the path from the library now, knapsack bouncing on her shoulders.

"Addison – stop for a second."

She does, seeming reluctant. "I have to study," she repeats.

"Addie, I don't understand why you're so upset."

"I'm not upset," she snaps. "I'm just - why do you even want to meet him?"

"Your father? Why wouldn't I want to meet him?"

Addison shakes her head. "Derek, just leave it. I shouldn't have told you he wanted to have dinner."

He tries to understand what's upsetting her. He knows she stopped at her dorm before class. Then she was tense all through Ethics of Modern Medicine. She finally told him there was a message on her machine, and that her father wanted to have dinner – what he doesn't understand is her reaction.

He just knows it has something to do with his reaction, when she told him.

"Do you … not want him to meet me?" he guesses.

"What? No, of course not." Addison turns to face him. "Wait, what do you mean?"

"Maybe you're … ashamed," Derek says tentatively. He's thinking of all the dog-whistles he's noticed since he and Addison started dating, the ones he might have missed if he hadn't grown up no more than twenty miles from her.

Twenty miles, and a whole world, apart.

Derek is used to other people having more money than his family. But there's more money – like Mark's parents, and a few others in his high school class who lived more than comfortably – and then there's Those People, on the coast, who live close enough to experience the same summer thunderstorms but have their own schools, their own clubs and charities. Their own language.

"Why would I be ashamed?"

"Because I'm from East Hadley," Derek says simply. He's not embarrassed, not of his town, not of how hard his mother worked to support five children, not of their relatively shabby house where his three older sisters shared a bedroom until college. "Because I went to public school. Because I have student loans."

Addison's cheeks turn a little pink at this. He knows she's sensitive about it; it came up not a month into the school year when he and Sam were talking about a financial aid meeting in anatomy lab in front of Addison and realized she wasn't planning to attend.

 _My parents are good about writing checks_ , she said when he asked, _but that's about it._

Derek was uncomfortable at the time, thinking about how his mother took extra shifts to afford ballet classes for Amy, who begged for a tutu. That was the first summer he got a paper route; he presented Amy with her little pink shoes himself. That paper route – and caddying at the club, when he got a little taller and stronger – and shoveling driveway after driveway with Mark during the months-long snow season … paid for his baseball uniforms, new gloves when he needed it.

"Derek." Addison's voice is shaking a little, interrupting his reverie. "I'm not ashamed of you. I don't care where you – I don't care. Why would you think that?"

"Maybe your parents care."

"Maybe they do, but that doesn't matter. They're … different people. They're not like me."

He nods, and Addison reaches for his hand.

"Derek, I don't care about where you grew up or where you went to school. Believe me, I would much rather – ." She stops talking. "I don't care," she repeats. "And we're in the same place now, aren't we? We're lab partners! Why does it matter how we got here?"

"It matters to some people."

"Maybe it matters to some people, but it doesn't matter to me," she says firmly. "Look, I'm sorry I brought it up. I don't have time to have dinner with him anyway. I need to study."

For some reason, this makes Derek's eyes feel a little hot, like he's stepped into the sun. He blinks. "You're lucky," he says, his voice low, taking his hand out of hers.

Addison's eyes widen. "Lucky," she repeats. "How do you figure that?"

"I wish I could have dinner with my father," he says – it's honest, but he regrets it when he sees her eyes fill with tears.

"I wish you could have dinner with your father too, Derek," she says softly. "I wish _I_ could have dinner with your father. But my father and your father are … different."

"What do you mean?"

She's suddenly very interested in marking the flagstone path with the toe of one of her penny loafers.

He's assumed, from things she's said, that her parents are rich. Fine, rich and snooty. But this feels like something else entirely.

"Forget it." She swipes at her eyes. "I'm just tired."

They were up late studying last night – okay, and the night before – but this seems like more than that. He takes her by the elbow of her quilted jacket and walks them both off the main path until they're leaning against one of the large oak trees by the entrance to some of the departmental offices.

He's seen her tired, and stressed, and – lots of things, but looking like she's about to cry over a dinner invitation?

Her reaction is making him nervous. She's never talked much about her family. Are they more than rich? Are they – were they – cruel?

"Addie?" He touches her shoulder. "You can tell me."

She doesn't say anything.

"Why don't you want to see him?" Derek persists. "Is he – a bad father? Did he hurt you?"

Addison makes a soft snorting sound at this, almost like she's amused. "You mean like … hit me? No. He wasn't around enough for that, and even if he'd wanted to, he probably would have had the nannies do it. He wasn't big on hands-on parenting. Neither of them were."

"Okay." Derek is confused. "Well, that's … good," he says tentatively.

"You know that quote, _happy families are all alike, every unhappy family is different in its own way_?"

"Tolstoy," he says after a moment, and she nods.

"Well, there are a lot of different ways to …." She stops talking. "Not everything leaves marks," she says after a moment.

Her phrasing makes him feel cold.

"Addie…."

"Look, Derek, you're sweet and I – I appreciate it. But this is my thing, okay? And anyway, my father doesn't want to have dinner with me."

"But you said – "

"I said he _told_ me he wanted to have dinner with me. That's not the same thing."

He ponders the difference, confused.

"He'll have some – reason to come down here, and it's definitely not me. Maybe a professor, maybe a student …." She shudders a little at this. "But it will be a woman. It's always a woman."

"A woman?"

"A girlfriend, a – girlfriend is too strong a word." Addison shakes her head. "He's always been like this. And he'll always be like this. Since I was little, ever since I can remember."

She looks up at him with tears in her eyes. "I had to lie to my mother, you know, tell her he was with me instead of … other women. _Now, kitten, if Bizzy_ _asks_ …," and she makes her voice deeper for what he assumes it her impression of her father, then shakes her head again. "I couldn't let my mother find out. She may not have been the most – but it would have destroyed her. She loves him so much."

"I'm sorry," he says softly.

"I used to make up lots of great stories about all the places he took me. I actually started to believe some of them."

Derek feels chilled again. "That's awful," he manages to say. "Addie, that's – that wasn't fair to you at all."

"Yeah, well. It was a long time ago. I'm all grown up now and I don't have to see him if I don't want to." Addison swipes at her eyes again. "So can we please drop it, and just – not see him?"

"Of course." He's relieved when she steps into his arms. He hugs her tightly; she feels warm against him and her hair smells herbal and sweet. Not just her hair; _she's_ sweet. She cares. And maybe it was a long time ago, but thinking of her as a little girl having to hide her father's – no wonder she doesn't want to see him. He feels a surge of protectiveness. "You don't ever have to see him if you don't want to," he says against her hair. "Not while I'm around."

She leans back, still in his arms, and smiles even though her eyes are still shining with tears. "You're going to take on the Captain? He considers himself a force to be reckoned with …."

"Yeah, well, so do I," Derek says, flexing a bicep and making her laugh a little. He leans in for a kiss. "I'm sorry that … it was like that for you. You deserve better, Addie."

She doesn't answer, just tilts her head up for another kiss, but there's something in her expression when she does that makes him think she doesn't quite believe him.

..  
 _Winter 2009_  
 _SEA - JFK_

"Would you like something to drink, sir?"

Derek glances at Mark. Then he glances out the window at the cloud cushion over the flat patchwork of the midwest.

He's aware he's heading somewhere with plenty of alcohol on offer.

But the double blow of the news he's heard today means that he wouldn't _like_ something to drink.

With only a few hours left in the flight, before they land in New York, and drive to Connecticut?

He _needs_ something to drink.

* * *

 _To be continued ... maybe?_

Also, how many different formats can I use for flashbacks? Only my hairdresser knows for sure. So, revolutionaries, I would love to hear from you. I love reviews like Addison and Derek love keeping me from crossing things off my to-do list. Review and let me know: is there anything new under the sun?


	27. The Thing With Feathers

**A/N: First, thank you x a thousand for the lovely comments on the last flip. I'm going to continue it as a standalone story, and I can admit I'm a little excited to see what happens when Derek and Mark show up in Connecticut.**

 **Now, though, I have a different flip to share. This is actually the third flip of episode 2.20 (aka the one where the patient's husband infamously tells Addison she looks like a young Catherine Deneuve). That episode is chock full of painful Addek goodness, but one part I haven't explored - that's always annoyed me - is Derek's "friendship" with Meredith aka walking Doc the Relationship Metaphor together in the mornings. This is really Derek at his least dreamy: Meredith is still hurting from Derek's choice to work on his marriage, and on top of that George is now not speaking to her because she had the nerve to cry during sex (seriously, though: your partner starts crying during sex, you maybe consider a better alternative than taking it personally and storming out). I never liked George's obsession with Meredith or his nasty treatment of her after she failed to fulfill his one-sided fantasy. But I'm getting off track. So Meredith is vulnerable, her housemates are mad at her, her ex lied about being married, and what's Derek's solution? Offer her "friendship." Pester her with it, more likely. Manipulate her to rely on him out of one side of his mouth and act huffy to Addison with the other. Argh. ARGH. Remember their walk with Doc, sharing a water bottle, and Meredith asks, "Does Addison know we're friends?" Derek finds this question amusing. And I cry.**

 **So, with that out of the way, I've always wondered what would have happened if Addison had caught them together on one of their walks. It was clearly a regular thing, or was supposed to be, since Derek told Meredith he walks Doc in the same place every other morning (and we know he and Addison takes turns from The Episode With the Poison Oak). If Addison had some reason to find them together on the trail, blowing up Derek's martyred position, maybe they could have talked. Actually talked. And maybe things could have been different, at least a little.**

 **In other words, this is a flip ... and a post-episode, in one. Takes place after Derek confessed his role in the end of their marriage, but before Derek stopped being "friends" with Meredith - which is a whole other can of awful, as we all know. Title from Emily Dickinson ( _"Hope" is the thing with feathers_ ).**

 **We're in the wake of Derek's admission that he was absent and indifferent in New York, in that rough patch of season 2 after Mark drops by in Yesterday but before Meredith has the gall to date the vet and turn Derek into a jealous maniac. It's one of my favorite aka most painful parts of the season. If only something had made them _actually talk_ before everything blew up...**

* * *

 **The Thing With Feathers**  
 _(2.20, "Bandaid Covers the Bullet Hole)_

* * *

Addison Shepherd would never describe herself as an optimist.

And with good reason, too, if you ask her, but the point is: she's just not an optimist. Not usually.

There are roles, of course: her husband is the Optimist; she's the Realist.

(Or the Pessimist, if you ask said husband, but she hopes you won't ask him anytime soon – not while he's still 50/50 angry at her and oblivious to her. He's not likely to say anything nice.)

Optimists are – strange. They're different. Different from her, anyway.

The difference? The big one, anyway?

Optimists have hope. And hope isn't in very large supply in the very small trailer where she's lying now, staring at the ceiling.

But strangely enough … she just might be an optimist this morning.

She's not sure why.

Maybe it's the surprisingly lovely weather – crisp but warm, with the promise of a real spring in the air.

Maybe it's that she's due to get an extra hour or sleep this morning, since it's Derek's turn to walk Doc.

Maybe it's the lingering warm memory of Derek's late night admission the other night. _I'm partly to blame for what's happened to our marriage. I'm sorry – I'm working on it._ So much more than she expected to get.

Or maybe, more simply, and most likely – it's that Derek kissed her goodbye before he left this morning.

It was so quick: a whisper. Maybe he didn't even notice. Muscle memory, habit, whatever. All she knows is how she woke: first, with Doc's enthusiastic barks cutting through what was left of a forgotten dream.

(And Doc can bark. Sometimes she wishes she could bark like that. _I need something,_ Doc barks, loudly and clearly. _Give me what I need._ Maybe life would be easier if people could be that straightforward too.)

And then she felt his lips brushing her cheek. _I've got it_ , he murmured, somewhere near her ear. Or was it: _I've got him._

Either way, the message was clear: Derek was taking Doc. Addison could sleep.

They were a team. Derek and Addison.

They _are_ a team.

She stretches a little in bed, enjoying the space. She didn't go back to sleep after Derek left – she could have, and she considered it, but the fresh breeze blowing through the door before he closed it, the early morning sunlight speckling the comforter … she didn't really want to miss it.

So now she's awake, lying in the bed she usually complains about, glancing around all the visible walls of the smallest space she's ever lived in.

(Counting the double room she and Savvy shared freshman year that she was so tiny they weren't surprised when a little research in the library – fine, and a little flirting with the archivist – proved that it was originally meant to be a single.)

From her vantage point, she can see everything. The whole space.

The kitchen. Well, the "kitchen." She can't help but add air quotes around every non-divided "room" in the trailer.

(Maybe that's why it's called an _Air_ stream? She'll have to ask Derek.)

And not just the "kitchen," but everything _in_ it too, from the coffee cup she knows will only be half-drunk – the other half is for after the walk, despite the fact that he could just pour a half-cup the first time around – to the little canisters of spice, the better to flavor freshly caught dawn trout, to Derek's stainless steel water bottle with the little straw – just the _straw_ , he got annoyed with her once for calling it a _little straw_ , and she can see –

Wait.

Derek's water bottle shouldn't be here. He's walking Doc, out in the sun. He needs water.

She's filled suddenly with purpose, and maybe even more optimism.

She's going to get out of bed.

She's going to put on clothes.

She's going to fill the water bottle – if he hasn't already – and bring it to him out on the trail. He can't have gone very far; she knows from experience the entire first twenty minutes of the walk will have been Doc painstakingly re-familiarizing himself with the scents of his daily routine.

That's what she's going to do. And then Derek will be hydrated, and maybe even – appreciative? She's eager to do something that will make him smile, or at least make him stop looking at her in that way that makes her want to bury herself in one of the holes Doc likes to dig behind the trailer.

He'll be pleased, or so she dares to hope.

Energized, it takes no time at all for her to dress – Derek will be impressed, she's quite sure, since he likes to tease her about how long she spends getting ready.

Or at least he used to. He doesn't seem to find many things endearing about her anymore.

But that was then, this is now – a new day, a beautiful spring morning, and she's pulling on jeans and one of Derek's flannel shirts. It's cozy, it smells like him, and with the water bottle in one hand she heads out to catch up to her husband and their dog.

It's a little farther than she remembered – and she's glad she toed into her high wellington boots instead of sneakers, because the ground is damp and a little muddy.

Tiger Mountain Trail: it sounds ominous, but she knows it's actually quite pretty. And Doc loves it.

She passes a young couple walking together, a German shepherd between them, smiling warmly at each other. The smaller hand of the woman is tucked into the man's back pocket with outrageously casual affection.

They greet her politely and she does the same, more envious of their intimacy than their youth.

They're walking the dog together. She and Derek don't walk Doc together.

But that's logical. It's fine. Why should they both lose sleep?

(She knows the answer to that. To spend more time together. To _be_ together. They were young once, after all.)

She keeps walking. Derek can't have gone that far, and sure enough, just as she crests the hill where she knows Derek lets Doc off the leash, she sees him – he's half blocked by a tree, and she can hear the rattling of Doc's collar as he runs joyfully.

She has her hand half in the air, her mouth half open to call his name, when he steps out from behind the tree and his name dies on her lips.

He's not alone.

Standing with him, smiling at him, watching the dog with him – is Meredith Grey.

Derek and Meredith.

For just a moment, she stands there, trying to catch her breath.

Derek's forgotten water bottle hangs loose from her fingers as she watches Meredith take a sip from her water bottle, and then pass it to Derek. He takes a sip, and then passes it back.

She's nauseated, leaning against a tree for balance … and hoping it's not poisonous.

Actually, right about now she wouldn't mind some poison.

The next time she glances up, Derek and Meredith are walking – slowly, taking their time; and then Derek throws a stick for Doc. They both laugh, she can hear it, when he runs crazily in circles.

The sheer … togetherness …of it pierces her like an arrow.

 _I've got it_ , Derek whispered to her as he rolled out of bed this morning. Right before he left, to meet Meredith. The two of them must have planned it; Meredith is far from home. And they're walking casually, comfortably, like they've done it before.

With another wave of nausea, she realizes they must have. This every-other-morning system and Derek have for walking Doc – so civil, so _mature_ – have all his mornings been spent with Meredith?

Embarrassed at her own foolishness, she resolves to leave as quietly as she came – head back to the trailer, get back in bed, pretend none of this ever happened.

Pretend until it feels real.

And it's a good plan, a great plan, except when she realizes with dawning horror that Doc has spotted her.

Spotted her – and he's heading right for her, barking joyfully.

"No, Doc," she whispers, praying he has supersonic canine hearing. "I'll see you later. Go – fetch a stick. Fetch a fish. Anything, just don't come over – "

… he's here.

He's here, and she has no choice but to receive his enthusiastic barks and accompanying tongue-bath and scratch behind his fluffy ears since he is, after all, a _very good boy, who's the best dog in the whole world?_

That … and pray for the trail to open up and swallow her whole.

It doesn't.

Even though she still has a little remaining shred of optimism.

But she probably shouldn't have.

As she squats with both hands in Doc's fur, a familiar shadow falls over her.

"Addison." Derek sounds somewhere between surprised and dismayed. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh … hi." She forces her tone to be casual as she stands, Doc leaping up with his muddy paws to decorate her borrowed flannel shirt. "You forgot your water bottle," she says, "so I brought it to you."

Derek is shading his eyes from the sun, so she can't read his expression.

"It seems like you found a replacement, at least," she says, gesturing toward the bottle of water in Meredith's hands. Meredith, for her part, looks about as thrilled with the encounter as Addison feels.

In the midst of the unquestionably awkward silence, Doc runs joyfully from one woman to the other.

"Meredith," Addison greets her with a nod. "It's a lovely morning, isn't it?"

"Lovely," she echoes.

Derek glances at Meredith. "Addison," he says again, his head tilting slightly that way it does when he's about to Say Something.

"I'll just head back," she says, before he can, because she's not sure she can hear him Say Something right now. She keeps her tone bright. "Enjoy the rest of the walk … both of you."

Feeling much like Lot – or is it Lot's wife? – she forces herself not to turn around as she walks all the way back down the trail, still holding Derek's water bottle.

Maybe she should have thrown it in the lake.

Maybe she should have jumped in alongside it.

Feeling as foolish as she did the time she caught Missy Lowell after lacrosse practice with the boy _she_ liked, she does the same thing – finds shelter in the closest tree and lets herself cry, just a little, where no one can see her.

She'll deny it if anyone asks.

..

"I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry about," Derek assures her. He's folding Doc's leash over and over in his hands.

"I guess you still haven't told her that we're ... friends."

Derek watches Doc, whose enthusiasm hasn't waned despite the awkward encounter. Doc has no awkward encounters: he loves everything and everyone. And they love him back. Sometimes Derek thinks it wouldn't be too bad to be a dog.

"It's fine," he tells Meredith briefly, trying not to think about Addison's frozen face when he spotted her by that tree, crouching down to Doc's level to pet him even while she looked less than thrilled to be discovered.

 _It seems like you found a replacement, at least._

"I should probably go," Meredith says finally.

"Yeah. I should probably go too."

"I'll see you at – "

"Yeah."

He clips Doc's leash at the base of the trail and they walk back to the trailer, each tired for different reasons.

He's thinking he has some time before he sees Addison, but as he and Doc approach the trailer he sees her slightly hunched figure sitting outside on its porch, chin in her hand.

 _Great._

She doesn't look up when he approaches, but Doc is undeterred and bounds over to lick her face. She scratches his ears and praises his good-boy-ness while Derek stands, holding the leash, and feeling like the polar opposite of a good boy.

"I forgot my key," Addison says, although he didn't ask the reason for her location.

So she's been sitting out here since she got back. He winces a little at the thought of it; it's a nice morning, but it's nicest in motion, in sunlight, not sitting on the rather damp trailer porch.

"And I have to pee," she continues, "and I'm afraid to do it outside after what happened last time."

He tries not to smile at her predicament.

"I have my key," he says. "And I showed you how to recognize poison oak after … what happened last time, didn't I?"

"You did. But there are more dangers out there than just poison oak."

 _Like seeing you and Meredith,_ she doesn't say. She doesn't have to say it.

He focuses on logistics instead, making short work of the lock while Addison manages to get to her feet despite Doc's intense desire to keep her on the porch with him. Somehow, they all get inside without tripping, and Addison disappears behind the polished door of the bathroom.

His coffee is waiting for him, on the table – cold, but it's good that way, it reminds him of the cooled off half-cups of coffee his father used to let them sip from sometimes, when they were small. He drains the cup quickly; Addison emerges, and when he sees her face he wishes the coffee had been a scotch instead.

Her previously full bladder must have been blocking her anger with him, because she no longer looks the way she did on the porch: a little chilled, a little pitiful.

Now she looks ready for battle.

(It might not be obvious to everyone, or anyone, just how battle-ready she is, because she's smiling pleasantly, but he's been married to her for eleven years.)

"So." She picks up the salt mill. "How was your date?"

… and there it is.

"It wasn't a date," he says, working to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

"It wasn't a date," she repeats. "But you did meet up with Meredith. On the trail. With Doc."

"I met up with Meredith, on the trail, with Doc, but it wasn't a date."

"You planned it."

"I planned – yes, I planned it, in the way you plan anything."

She mutters something he can't hear.

"What was that?"

"Forget it." She shakes her head. "How long have you been meeting like that?"

"Not long," he says, realizing too late that he's mostly given himself away.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I knew you'd react like this," he says.

Addison blinks and doesn't respond.

"She misses Doc," he adds after a moment.

"Doc," Addison repeats, looking almost amused. "That's who she misses?"

"He was her dog first."

"Was. He _was_ her dog, but she gave him to us. So now she's our dog."

"She gave him to me," Derek can't resist correcting.

"And you and I are married, so giving him to you means giving him to us."

Derek doesn't say anything.

"She misses Doc," Addison repeats, again, "and you think seeing him … _more_ … is going to help her move on?"

"He's just a dog."

"Clearly." Addison picks up a dishtowel on the counter, folding it with something between precision and aggression.

"We're friends," Derek says, hearing how defensive he sounds. "Meredith and I are friends. That's all."

"That's all," she repeats.

"That's all," he confirms.

Now she's opening the salt canister – why, he has no idea, but Addison is always fiddling with things, taking them apart, putting them back together. When she's finished, she looks up at him.

"You're not friends," she says quietly.

"Excuse me?"

"You're not friends. You and Meredith. You told me you were still in love with her, Derek. You told me you needed time. And fine, I gave you time, I'm giving you time, but Derek … people who are still in love, people who need time, they're not friends. They can't be friends. You and Meredith … aren't friends."

Her speech is long, not quite a flip-out and certainly not by Addison's high standards for flip-outs, but it leaves him on edge nonetheless.

He rubs a weary hand through his hair, aware she's waiting for a response.

"I'd like to take a shower," he says finally.

It's honest, if not particularly responsive.

Addison raises an eyebrow. "So take a shower."

He considers the offer. "You mean, take a shower, as in _take a shower_ , or take a shower, translated from passive-aggressive to English so it means _if you take a shower I'm going to flip out?_ "

She blinks, and he regrets needling her, for a moment. It's not that she's not passive-aggressive, and it's not that he hasn't pointed it out before. It's more that he's not unaware that the joke is at her expense.

"We can finish … talking after I shower," he proposes.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why bother?" she asks, shaking her head. "It's not like we're actually talking now."

"Addison." He sighs, shrugging out of his flannel shirt.

"Just shower," she says, turning her back and starting to fuss with the coffee maker, so he takes her at her word.

Showers aren't quite the escape-from-the-world they were back in New York, where there was an entire calming white anteroom before the shower even started. There, it was quiet. Peaceful. He was alone.

He's not alone now, as the door opens without warning.

"Addison?"

She doesn't say a word as she joins him under the spray. He has to flatten himself against the wall; there's not really room for two here.

"This is a very small shower," she says.

"I'm aware," he says. "Which is why it's usually a solo endeavor."

She raises her eyebrows, which has a somewhat comical effect under her streaming wet hair. "Solo endeavor. Showers. You?"

He finds himself flushing a little; his reputation precedes him. Still, it's been a while for them, not since the hotel, and that was only because –

"Addison!"

"What?"

"What are you doing?"

"I'm showering with my husband," she says neutrally.

"You're doing more than that."

"Are you complaining?"

"I don't know," he admits. It certainly wouldn't be the first time they'd gone from fighting to … not fighting, or to shower-not-fighting, but not lately, and not here. Here, it feels wrong.

Well. It feels pretty good, but it also feels wrong. The coffee sours in his throat.

"Addison … stop."

She doesn't, but the pounding water and the copious wet hair blocking her ears are probably to blame.

Carefully, he takes her arms and hoists her to her feet.

"What's wrong?" She rubs her arms, shivering a little, and he moves as much as he can to give her a little more of the hot water.

"Nothing's wrong, Addison, I'm just not in the mood."

She lowers her eyes to the evidence against him, and he finds himself irritated.

"It's a physiological response," he says irritably, "or was that someone else sitting next to me in Anatomy in 1988?"

"No, that was me," Addison says. "I'm glad to hear you remember. Sometimes I'm not sure."

He massages his temples. She's still looking at him, and in spite of himself, he feels a little bad. She was trying to make up for their argument, and he could have let her.

"Addison …"

"Don't worry about it," she says coolly. "I was just trying to be … friendly."

She leans on the first syllable of the last word – _friend_ – in a way that makes her meaning clear.

And there it is.

Carefully, he steps around her – he's finished anyway, he's clean – and leaves the Queen of the Land of Passive-Aggressiva looking rather surprised, alone in the shower.

..

She takes a while longer to finish; by the time she emerges she's wearing her robe and has her hair twisted up in one of those towel-turbans they apparently teach women how to make at birth.

He's still wearing a towel around his waist, working on his second cup of coffee and absently scratching Doc behind the ears.

He feels oddly naked – even though the only other person in the trailer with him has seen him naked thousands of times – and while Addison combs her hair out he trades in his towel for sweatpants, and adds a t-shirt for good measure.

Addison is still wearing her pale green robe, her hair loose and wet down her back, standing in the kitchen just … watching him.

She glances between him and the coffee maker, maybe wondering if he's made enough for two – fine, he used to do that when she first moved in, purposefully brewing only enough for one, and it was a power play, admittedly, but he hasn't done that in a while.

She should know better.

He doesn't want to feel guilty, but she's not nagging, she's just – quiet.

Quiet and, he can admit, sad.

"Are you okay?" he asks finally, in spite of himself.

"Me? Oh, I'm doing great," she says. "I live in a trailer so small I can blow dry my hair from the front door, and I was just rejected in the shower – the _shower_ , Derek – by my husband who spent the morning on a hike with his girlfriend."

Never let it be said that Addison lets things go.

"She's not my girlfriend," he says shortly.

"Oh, that's right, she's your _friend_."

He takes another sip of coffee. "Give it a rest, Addison."

She's pouring herself a cup of coffee now, her movements exaggerated and huffy. He keeps his distance in case she tips over the carafe.

When she turns around, some of the fight seems to have gone out of her face. "You could have warned me," she says, her voice uncharacteristically small. "You could have told me you were meeting her and then I wouldn't have been – "

She doesn't finish the sentence.

He's not sure what the final word would have been: surprised? Upset?

"You're right," he says. "I could have told you."

 _Does Addison know we're friends?_

"Meredith is ... having a hard time," he continues carefully. "Some problems with her housemates, the other interns. She needs a friend."

" _I_ need a friend," Addison cuts in.

"You have – "

He doesn't finish the sentence. _You have friends._ Does she?

In New York, certainly.

But here?

"You have a husband," he says finally, "and Meredith doesn't. And … I hurt her."

"When you took me back, you mean." Addison finishes the thought woodenly. "You hurt her when you took me back."

He nods.

"You hurt me too," she says.

"When I took you back?" he asks, confused.

"That too." She takes another sip of coffee. "Look, I get it … she needs a friend, and you want to be that friend. I just don't think you can be friends with someone when you still have feelings for them. I'm not judging," she adds hastily. "I do get it, Derek. I just … I think you're playing with fire. I know I couldn't be friends with Mark."

He exhales a short, disgusted breath, as he is wont to when Mark's name comes up.

And then he pauses, the import of her words washing over, and then confusing, him.

"You and Mark had a one-night stand," he reminds her. "Feelings weren't involved."

She doesn't respond.

"You had a one-night stand," and he's not sure why he's repeating it.

Then she looks up at him, her expression miserable enough to make the rest of her point.

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

She's already flinching like she expects him to yell at her, but his voice is quiet when he responds: "You're sorry about what?"

From her expression, the quiet part didn't exactly reassure.

"I, um, I did … have feelings." She's turning her empty coffee cup from hand to hand, fiddling with the handle. "For Mark," she adds quietly.

"It wasn't a one-night stand," he realizes.

His pulse is loud, the loudest thing in the trailer as he breathes.

 _It was one time! I know that's what everyone says, I know that's what always gets said, but it's true!_

She was hysterical that night, pleading … but specific, too.

 _It was one time._

"You said it was one time," he reminds her.

"It was, at first, but I – I stayed with him after you left." The damn cup is moving from hand to hand again, irritating him. She's not making eye contact, but he can hear how nervous she is from the sound of her exhales. "I missed you –"

"Don't," he says shortly.

"I'm sorry," she whispers again. "Derek, I'm sorry, but it's true. I was lonely, I was scared, and Mark was there and ... and you left, so … I stayed with him."

"You had feelings for him," he repeats, still on her first admission. " _Feelings_. For Mark?"

She glances up at him, shame in her eyes. "It was stupid," she says softly.

Stupid doesn't begin to cover it.

"That's a separate issue," he says evenly. "You didn't mention this – any of this – not until now? You didn't think it was relevant?"

She doesn't respond, just breathing in that trapped-animal way and still turning the cup from hand to hand, leaving him alone to figure out the depth of her deception.

"Would you put that down?" he snaps finally, reaching over to take the cup, sick of her fiddling with it, but she flinches away from his hand and somehow the cup is dislodged, falling to the ground and shattering on the trailer floor.

For a moment they're both startled.

He opens his mouth to say, _I didn't mean to do that_ , but it doesn't come out.

She isn't looking at him, anyway; she's crouched down on the floor where the cup smashed, surveying the broken pieces as if she can put them back together.

Even Addison isn't that good.

And she must realize it, because she picks up only one piece and turns it over in her hand.

"Be careful," he says automatically.

Her eyes are huge when she looks up at him.

"Leave it. I'll clean it up." He extends a hand to her, which she ignores. "Addison … just leave it."

When she doesn't move – she's so still it's eerie, really – he bends down to take hold of her arms, for the second time that morning, and pull her to her feet. Her hand is still clenched around the broken piece of cup she was holding before, and when she doesn't seem inclined to let it go, he opens her hand himself and takes the sad little white shard out of her grip.

"You're bleeding," he says, surprised.

"Barely."

Her voice is so low it would be charity to call it a whisper.

"You're supposed to protect your hands," he reminds her, still gripping her wrist as he leads her less than a foot to the sink.

"I'm supposed to do a lot of things," she says, but she doesn't protest when he runs cold water over her hand, or presses a clean towel into its surface.

He lets go and she holds the towel there herself.

"I'm sorry," she says softly.

"It's okay … I never liked that mug."

But the mug was in the starter set he bought, carelessly, when he bought the trailer. There's no history to it, no _never._ He didn't like or dislike it. It wasn't good or bad. It just … _was._

And now it isn't anymore.

"I'm sorry too," he says instead of parsing his feelings about the mug. "I wasn't trying to break it."

She's twisting the edge of the dishtowel in her hands now – she has to do something with them, he supposes, and at least a dishtowel isn't breakable.

And at least she's wearing slippers. He encourages her to sit while he cleans up what's left of the mug.

Not just to buy time.

But partly to buy time. There's never enough of it.

Maybe he should have bought some extra time when he bought the trailer.

..

"You never told me you had feelings for Mark."

That's his opener, when the mug is cleaned. The first thing he says. She's been sitting on the kitchen-bench-thing, holding the clean dishtowel on her hand – she's fine, barely a scratch, but it felt good that he was concerned for a moment, that he fussed over her a little, so she can't really complain.

And she saw the look in his eyes when it shattered – surprise, but also guilt, shading their color. It's easy to recognize guilt; she has her own.

Lots of it.

She studies the spot on the floor where the ceramic shards are no longer.

She flinched when he grabbed for the mug; if he noticed, he didn't say anything. It's not like she actually thought he would hurt her, just that he was – moving fast, reaching toward her, and she flinched. She flinched and the cup fell and then it broke.

She's not sure if she would have flinched, before.

But everything is different now.

"I'm sorry," she says.

He looks grim.

"You should have told me. I should have known the whole story." He pauses. "Do I know the whole story now?"

"I caught him with someone else," she says. She was never going to tell him that part – it's too karmic, too humiliating – but the words tumble out anyway. "Before I came to Seattle, I caught him with someone else."

He actually looks surprised for a moment.

"I did have feelings for him," she says, hearing her voice shake a little. "He was my friend – before, we were friends, and I was lonely. So yes, I had feelings. But I was only ever buying time, Derek. You were the one I wanted."

He seems to be weighing this.

She doesn't ask whether he would have taken her back if he'd known the truth.

He doesn't tell her he wouldn't have.

But she can still feel the knot in her stomach that started the night he left her – hell, it started more like a year before that, when he started the process of leaving that he finished the night he caught them.

"I didn't tell you Meredith and I were friends," Derek says abruptly, "because I wanted to spend time with her. And I knew you wouldn't like it."

"Okay." She nods. "I get that. Thank you for … being honest about it."

He doesn't say anything.

"Derek … is that why you wanted to do the alternate-morning thing, with Doc? To set up walks with Meredith?"

"No." He seems genuinely puzzled. "We were already doing the alternate-morning thing when I set up – when I started walking with her."

"So it was just so you could avoid me, then," she says, trying to sound like she's joking.

He looks like he knows she's not.

"It was so you could sleep," he says. "So I could sleep."

"Maybe I don't want to sleep."

"Maybe you don't want to sleep," he counters, "but you need to sleep. For your sake … and mine."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you need sleep," he says mildly. "Everyone needs sleep."

"I need _you_." She says the words without caring how they sound.

He's quiet for a moment, and she fiddles with a loose thread on the dishtowel, fighting embarrassment. This is Derek. Her husband. With all they've been through, more than a third of their lives together, even just this morning alone – and she has to close her eyes for a moment to forget the shower – it's silly to be embarrassed.

She still is, though.

"Forget it," she says when he starts to respond. "I'm just being – passive-aggressive." His favorite characterization when they argue, and one she knows isn't always far off.

"No you're not," he says. "I know, I'm surprised too," he adds when she looks up at him with raised eyebrows.

She almost laughs.

He almost laughs.

Their eyes meet, and neither of them laughs.

But he doesn't look away.

Instead, he sits down next to her. He's quiet for long breaths.

"You should have told me about Mark," he says finally.

"I know. I know that, and I really am sorry, Derek."

He nods.

More silence passes, the trailer humming, Doc chewing loudly and happily on his rawhide bone.

"I should have told you about Meredith," Derek admits after a moment.

She glances up at him. "It's not as bad as … my thing," she says.

"Maybe not. But that doesn't mean it's not bad."

She ponders this, folding over the edge of the dishtowel.

"Can I see?" he asks, gesturing to her hand.

Obligingly, she holds out her hand.

The pad of his thumb feels warm as it rubs her palm.

"No damage," he says. "It's going to be fine."

He sounds a little surprised … and a little relieved.

Maybe – possibly? – even a little hopeful.

She gets it.

She feels the same way.

* * *

 _...and, scene. I can't advance them too much here: Addison just dropped her own bombshell. And Derek never thinks what he did is as bad as what Addison did. And he probably never will. But they talked, and they admitted things. Maybe they even flipped? Thank you for reading, and I hope you will review and let me know what you think. I love hearing your thoughts._


	28. Blue Skies Are Grey

**A/N: I exist, and I am sorry!** (Words that sum up Season 2 in a way?) Happy day after Thanksgiving to observers, and happy Friday to everyone. It's been a crazy few months for me, and they went by quickly - I don't think I even really internalized how long I was gone. Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed and PMd and reached out. I was feeling stuck about what to finish/post/catch up with first, because time away means having to re-familiarize myself with everything. As in, read every chapter of my insane WIPs before I post new ones, and that ... takes a while. I didn't know where to start - so here I am, on Thanksgiving, one of the depressingly lovely High Addek Holidays. I've flipped this episode before, early on, starting from the trailer kiss. But I started wondering what might have happened if I flipped it a little earlier. As in, Addison did get Chinese food, and go to the trailer, and wait. For a while. But then maybe she got tired of waiting. Remember the scene preceding the rainy trailer kiss: Derek and Meredith are sitting outside SGH on a bench, jointly depressed over their joint coma patient.

And then maybe my short little break-the-ice flip devolved into like 9,000 words of Addek. I'm ridiculous. But we knew this already. (oh, and title from the perfect _Sad Eyes_ , which played beautifully over the final scenes of that episode)

So ... finally and very sincerely, I want to thank you for still wanting to read my writing, and for being patient and encouraging. I appreciate you all the time, but on Thanksgiving-post I am especially grateful for each and every one of you. I hope you enjoy this flip that maybe (maybe?) could have happened this way...

* * *

 **Blue Skies Are** **Grey**  
 _(2.09, "Thanks For the Memories")_

* * *

Her husband has had a hard night.

That much is clear; she can see it from here.

Sitting on one of the benches lining the walkway from the hospital, he has that set in his shoulders he always gets after a long surgery with a less than positive outcome.

So he's exhausted, she can tell that, but … calm too. His head is tilted slightly, just enough to take in the woman next to him. Her posture's not that different from his. They're mirrors of each other. Whatever made him feel the way his body indicates he feels now – she felt it too.

That's what marriage is, isn't it? What happens to one of you, happens to the other.

She's seen him take this posture before. Countless times.

She's sat next to him, mirroring that posture, before. Countless times.

So the only issue, then, right now … is that she's not the woman sitting next to him.

Not at all.

The woman next to him is a stranger.

As for his wife? Well, his wife is the woman inside her fogged-up rental car, alone in the parking lot, partially obscured by a tree … watching.

And it doesn't matter that it's her fault, all of this. It doesn't matter that she's the reason her husband is _here_ to begin with, in Seattle, of all places – when they used to laugh that their lives were so prescribed within a twenty-block radius they couldn't even imagine even moving downtown – and it's her fault that the woman sitting next to her husband is … not her.

Her fault.

It drizzled on the first part of the drive, enough that when she flicked on the wipers – the first part of the car she figured out how to operate, and the most necessary – they swiped out that exact rhythm: _Your_ fault. Like that: one, two.

 _Your_ fault.

 _Your_ fault.

Like they always do.

Here in Seattle, the wipers talk to her, sometimes.

At least someone does, right? She may not have her husband, or her closest girlfriends, or the sisters-in-law who are more like sisters, or even the colleagues who straddled the line between acquaintance and friend. She has windshield wipers.

And like everyone else in Seattle, they judge her.

 _Cheat_ er, they drum out sometimes, on high speed, when they're slamming harshly against the glass. _Cheat_ er, _cheat_ er, _cheat_ er. Faster, and faster.

The middle speed is the worst one, though. A little slower: _Li_ ar, it says, slick with rain.

 _Li_ ar, _li_ ar, _li_ ar, _li_ ar.

It reminds her that she's not innocent.

She's hurt … but she's not innocent.

Not even close.

 _Straight to voicemail, huh? You're a regular Derek Shepherd_. That's what Mark said the last time he called. He didn't sound angry. Or even bitter. He sounded … like someone who'd given up hope.

Like someone who'd completely given up.

Which was her fault too.

 _Your_ fault, the wipers remind her when she drives. _Your_ fault. _Your_ fault.

Her fault Mark's alone.

Her fault Derek's here.

Her fault _she's_ here.

Her fault that all three of them are miserable.

Not that she would admit it to anyone else except the wipers, not that she wants to admits it, but … still.

And there's one more, too. One more miserable person.

The one sitting next to her husband right now. She's so small, fragile looking even in what appears from the distance to be an oversized fisherman's sweater –

 _Of course it's a fisherman's sweater,_ an uncharitable little part of her scoffs.

Derek looks bigger somehow, next to her delicate frame.

( _That's what you were going for, right? The Anti-Addison?_ )

 _Your_ fault, the wipers will remind her, later. _Your_ fault.

Her fault he met Meredith in the first place.

Her fault he came out here. Her fault she followed him here.

Her fault she slept with Mark.

 _Stu_ pid, the wipers remind her sometimes, when she's driving alone over the bridge in the silly sports car a part of her hoped Derek would appreciate. _Stu_ pid, _stu_ pid, _stu_ pid. She's known Mark as long as she's known Derek. She shouldn't have been stupid enough to – but she was. Stupid enough to wreck her marriage, stupid enough not to listen to Savvy, _go to counseling_ , she said, _take a vacation, call in sick_ , but that's not what she did. It was both of their faults, what happened to their marriage. Until it wasn't.

Until it was just hers.

 _Stu_ pid, _stu_ pid, _stu_ pid.

The wipers are off right now. But the chant is still active in her head.

She leans forward a little, squinting. They're still just … sitting there. Their heads are inclined slightly towards each other, but it doesn't look like they're talking. They're just … sitting.

And then – they're talking. She can't hear the words. She's not sure she'd want to. But she watches.

It's … not raining.

Believe it or not, it's not raining.

The air is thick and heavy, though – it's still Seattle – draping fog over the windows of the zippy little car she doesn't particularly like driving. She doesn't particularly like driving anything, in fairness, and would much rather take a cab or a town car for those distances when her long stride isn't enough.

But _fair_ doesn't have much play in her life these days.

If life were fair, she'd be the one on the bench next to her husband.

And then Meredith stands up, walks – no, she's turning back. Addison feels her ribs contract with the breath she's holding. Is she going to –

No, she's just – saying something. And then Derek is responding, his head tilted slightly.

She can't make out any words, but it looks … sad.

It looks like goodbye.

And then Addison is sliding guiltily lower in the driver's seat to make sure Meredith won't see her, the foggy side windows a relief.

Meredith doesn't see her. Meredith walks right past her. She doesn't notice a thing.

Addison gets it.

She remembers what it's like … when all you see is Derek.

And then Meredith is gone, and Addison? She's somehow alone with her husband.

Not alone, _together_ – but both alone.

Addison in the driver's seat of the car she doesn't even like, the one that judges her with every flick of the windshield, the one she hates having to maneuver over slick roads and sidle into parking spaces. It's not her. Nothing in this city is her.

Derek? He's alone, too. On the bench, his forearms resting on his thighs, head tipped forward slightly. It's a thinking posture, one she knows well.

He doesn't know she's there.

 _He doesn't know she's there._

The nostalgia that crept in at his defeated pose, at the shape of him, prickles at its edges.

Derek has no idea the wife he's been avoiding is sitting in the parking lot, in full view of his bench. As far as he knows, she's still waiting for him, at the trailer, where he stood her up.

She waited, for a while.

A long while.

She brought Chinese take-out in a blatant attempt to appeal to his own nostalgia – if nothing else, it's something she has that Meredith never will, _his past_ , the memories of youth they'll always share no matter how he tries to erase her. Of course, his absence reminded her that past is just that. Past. The way Derek and Meredith were sitting, on that bench – that moment of _after_ , she must have been with him in surgery, which could be as intimate as sex in their world … she's his present.

Which one of them will be his future?

She tips her head back against the seat, breathing. As if she's the one who fogged up the car.

No one can tell the future.

It was _past_ she picked at morosely, on the steps of the trailer. He hasn't given her a key, of course. She hasn't asked, but such is their dance: he'd say she's passive-aggressive, she'd say he's withholding, and they'd both be right.

So she sat alone, and sampled the food. She put effort in – not that he would have noticed, but she hunted for a place that seemed authentic, that had that … hole in the wall atmosphere she remembered from the places they'd order cheap food in medical school. She ordered the dumplings fried for the first time in years, post-medical school metabolisms be damned. Like they used to.

It was good. It was actually good, whether because she didn't hold back on the oil or because she's been living on salads and the lump in her throat.

It was good while it lasted. And then she watched the moment its curdled edges started to congeal and she couldn't stay. Couldn't see _good_ turn into _bad_ one more time. She tied up the bag and left it there and got in her car, not really sure where she was going … until she got there.

And nowhe's standing up.

It's now or never.

 _Now_ , the wipers whisper to her. _Now_.

She wants to be his present, doesn't she? Slowly, she eases out of the car, a little stiff from sitting. She sees the moment he doesn't see her.

He's walking slowly down the path, his mind obviously elsewhere. She's watching him, the same but so very different from that first day, watching him through the glass. All that armor is gone now, the false confidence you can buy in a jar or a boutique. She's in jeans and a simple top, an old cardigan. For him. He used to give her that soft sentimental smile when she dressed like this. _You look like a medical student_ , he would tease sometimes, and she wouldn't answer out loud: _does that mean you love me?_

He's not paying attention, and – if he walks past her, if he actually walks past her, she's pretty sure it will kill her.

"Derek."

He looks up.

"Addison. What are you doing here?"

It's exactly what he said the last time. Except he doesn't sound angry, not that jaw-set, teeth-gritted way he greeted her that night. He sounds … tired. On the darkened pathway, he looks tired too.

"You didn't show," she says, hearing how small her voice sounds and hating it.

He doesn't respond. He doesn't make excuses, doesn't apologize – _he's Derek, he's not sorry, he's never sorry_ – but he doesn't look away.

"I waited," she adds.

He nods a little.

She's going to let it go, she's going to be … whatever Meredith was to him, just now. Quiet? Supportive? Not asking anything from him? Is that what he wants?

She opens her mouth to try it, _don't worry about it, honey, it's fine, I barely even waited … for hours … outside a trailer … in the middle of the woods._

"You never showed," she repeats instead.

His head tilts slightly. He doesn't speak. She bought him that leather jacket, and she finds herself wondering if he remembered that when he packed it. If it means he didn't hate her completely.

"What were you doing?" she asks, her voice shaking a little. "Hurting me back?"

"I was working," he says. His tone is neutral. Neutral and tired.

"You were off today," she reminds him.

"Surgeons are never off."

" _You're_ never off," she corrects him. "I'm a surgeon, and I was off. And I waited for you."

He doesn't respond.

As often in the face of his silence, she feels desperation start to brew. "Look, Derek, it's okay, if you – I get it, if you want to hurt me back. I just – a little warning, that's all. So I can be prepared. You know, special-order a … thicker skin or something, and …."

She tries to smile a little, like it's funny – _it's fine, honey_ – and feels traitorous tears spring to her eyes.

She's not going to look up. She's not going to let him see.

And for once, to her shock, Seattle is on her side: the skies open up and the rain that's been threatening all evening spills down on them,

"It's raining," she says, feeling like an idiot even as the words spill out. Raindrops are running down her face like tears, they're sliding into her mouth slick and unwelcome.

For a moment Derek just looks at her, rain already soaking his hair, flattening the curls, flicking off the collar of the jacket she bought for him. It's a trick of the light, or do his eyes look sad?

Then he looks back at the hospital for a moment, as if there's an answer somewhere inside it, and then he makes a gesture of – something? and he takes her arm and leads her with him down the walkway.

She doesn't ask where.

She just goes with him, into the rain.

..

He was half frozen when he saw her. Not with cold, just … tired.

And she startled him. She used to do that a lot: she's nearly as tall as he is and he'd tease her about the size of her feet, her shoes, but she has a surprisingly soft stride, invisible footfalls, and back in New York she'd suddenly be somewhere he wasn't expecting her.

It's automatic, muscle memory, leading them both out of the rain. Or recognition that someone needs to move. He opens the door to her side of the jeep first, out of habit –

Not her side. The passenger side. The jeep is his. Derek's, not _AddisonAndDerek's_ , and she's a passenger. That's all.

Then he unlocks his own side and swings into the seat. She's shivering a little, arms wrapped around herself.

"Where's your coat?" he asks, for lack of anything better to say.

"It was supposed to be sixty degrees."

"Fifty-five," he corrects her, "and the weather is different here."

"I noticed." She's not looking at him.

He turns the ignition so he can put on the heat; she doesn't say anything, but he sees her place her palms in front of the vents, and sigh a little when the warm air hits them.

Then he remembers what she was saying. _Chinese food._ At the trailer.

"Addison."

"Hm?"

She sounds tired.

"What did you do with the Chinese food?"

"I tied up the bag," she says, as if the answer's obvious.

"You left it out? You left the food out?"

"No. Not _out_." She frowns. "I just said, I tied it up," she continues when he stares at her.

"Tied it up and left it out." When she doesn't correct him, he shakes his head. "This isn't Manhattan."

"No kidding."

"I mean – you can't just tie up the bag and leave it for the housekeeper," he says irritably. "The trailer is in the woods."

"I noticed that too."

"Addison, would you just – " He stops, annoyed. "There are sealed disposal cans. Behind the trailer, didn't you … " Of course she didn't notice. "They're triple-sealed. You don't just leave food out in the woods. You can't. There are bears."

He sees the moment her face goes from defensive and a little irritated to anxious.

"Bears?" Her eyes widen. "But not in – "

" – the woods? Where did you think they lived?"

"How am I supposed to know?" she snaps.

"Then you should stay out of the woods."

She blinks. "I was waiting for you," she says, in that small voice again. The hurt one, like it's _his_ fault.

" _Addison_."

"I'm sorry, okay? I didn't know I had to – bury the food or whatever, or lock it in a bear vault, and you didn't tell me. We had plans, to meet, and you still didn't tell me."

He also didn't tell her he was staying at the hospital. He never updated her. She doesn't have to finish his litany of sins.

"Everyone knows there are bears in the woods," that's what he says instead. Mutters it.

"Derek … what were you and Meredith talking about?"

It's such a lightning shift of topic that he'd be startled, if he didn't know his wife. If a decade and a half hadn't taught him that _off guard_ is how she catches her prey.

"Excuse me?"

"I saw you talking." Her shoulders are squared; she's not looking at him, purposefully, it seems. "Before, on the bench, you were talking."

"We were talking," he confirms. When she's silent, still seemingly waiting for an answer, he sighs. "She assisted on my surgery."

"The one you decided to do … when we had plans."

"Addison." He massages his forehead, a headache growing. "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to tell me what you were talking about with your girlfriend."

He doesn't mean to do it, he's only palming the steering wheel in annoyance but he hits it harder than he intended to. Louder, and she jumps.

And he feels guilty.

It's not fair, none of it is fair.

"I was just asking." Her voice is small and hurt and despite himself, despite knowing how much she brings on _her_ self, he still feels guilty.

"We were talking about the case. Meredith and I, we were talking about the case. Are you satisfied?"

"Not really, no." She tilts her head, looking at him.

Shocking. Addison, unsatisfied.

"It's Thanksgiving," she says after a few thick moments of silence.

He looks out the side window. "I know it's Thanksgiving."

"Derek, can't you just – "

"I'm taking you home," he says, before she can finish, and before he can throw the gearshift she's slumping down in the seat next to him.

"Yeah?" She looks over at him. "If you figure out where that is … let me know."

..

There's a pause where she's thinking he's going to shove her out of her car, or at least tell her to find her own way back to … her hotel, New York, wherever. She's certainly practiced at playing on his guilt, skilled even, but that was before Mark … before Meredith.

"Fine," he says shortly. "We can go – "

"Not to the trailer. I don't want to go if there are bears," she says nervously. This new mountain version of Derek isn't … armed, is he? And even if so, she's not sure she wants to see him take on a bear. Or _bears_ , plural.

"Fine. I'll just take you – "

"I don't want _you_ to go to the bear trailer either, Derek!"

He palms the steering wheel again for a moment – a much quieter moment, though still one in which she's fairly certain she's going to end up dumped back in the parking lot.

But he surprises her by throwing the jeep in reverse, instead.

By agreeing to leave the trailer overnight, to leave the trash to the bears.

She has a hotel room, after all. They can sleep there, and go back in the morning to see what damage they wrought.

 _I'm gonna go, you stay._

How much damage could they do, in just one night?

 _I'll come back for my things in the morning._

"Derek – "

But he doesn't want to talk. He wants directions to her hotel, he wants to complain about the traffic.

They could take the ferry, load the car, and she feels her heart speed up a little with anticipation … but he drives over the bridge instead.

Rain sluices around them, drumming the windshield.

It's heavy, and his windshield wipers are on high.

 _Li_ ar, they remind her. _Li_ ar, _li_ ar, _li_ ar.

She lied to him. Lied by omission, but still lied, and even with all of that he's still not hers.

"You miss her," Addison says out loud.

He doesn't respond. For a moment, she's not sure he heard her.

"Derek – "

She slumps in her seat when he doesn't answer.

The wipers are loud.

The car is quiet.

Then he speaks:

"She asked me if I love you," he says, guiding the car around a slippery curve.

"What?" She's glad he can't see her face.

"You asked … what we were talking about. Before. Meredith and I."

"Meredith asked you that … tonight?" Her tongue feels thick, unfamiliar, in her mouth.

He nods.

"She asked if you love me? Me, as in … me?"

"You, as in you."

The gall of it, the –

Except she's wondering the answer, herself.

"What did you tell her?"

The words are barely out of her mouth when she starts to regret them.

"I told her I don't know," he says.

 _I don't know._

The ambiguity stings, but not as much as an outright denial would have.

Right?

Is that right, or has she lost the plot entirely?

 _Li_ ar, the wipers remind her. _Li_ ar.

"What about her?"

"What _about_ her?" he asks, the smallest change in inflection turning the accusation around.

"Do you love her?"

He's silent for a long time, a four-exits-long time, and she's fairly certain she's pushed him too far but also fairly certain that can't matter. Not now.

"I don't know," he says finally.

"You don't know if you love her."

He nods; she watches him move in profile.

"And you don't know if you love me."

Another exit goes by, but he nods again.

 _I just know I still love you_ , that's what she said to him in the NICU. It was true, wasn't it? Not another performance? Her heart is a closed fist.

 _I don't know_ , that's what he told Meredith.

Rain drums the windows.

The wipers slash back and forth.

 _Li_ ar, _li_ ar, _li_ ar.

 _Tell_ him, _tell_ him, _tell_ him.

It's always raining here.

"Ask me if I love him," she says quietly.

The air in the jeep changes immediately. The moment her words are out. He's an excellent driver and you'd never know she'd shocked him, except for the air. Except for everything.

"I guess I don't really know either," she says, answering her own question.

He's quiet for another two exits, but there's a … vibration coming off him. Not anger. Something else.

"Derek – "

He puts up a hand, a hand from the wheel – to shut her up and she does it.

Neither of them speaks again until he's parked outside the inn where she's been staying, with its faux-homey torches and rain-drenched portico.

Her heart thumps. He's going to leave her here. She doesn't take off her seatbelt, the last lifeline connecting them.

"Derek?"

He lowers her hand to unbuckle her seatbelt himself, and it whizzes past her face so fast she can hear the air displace.

"I just … I just didn't want it to be nothing. To mean nothing."

 _Stop talking. Why are you still talking? Stop._

"Sleeping with my best friend." His voice is cold. "You wanted it to … mean something?"

"You left," she whispers.

He's shaking his head. He looks disgusted with her.

"It _was_ one time, Derek, I swear – "

"You're unbelievable."

" – but then you left, and I – we were both – " She pauses. "You had a relationship. With Meredith. Didn't you?"

"Leave her out of this."

"But she's in this. We're all in this."

He doesn't respond. He leans across her and opens the car door, giving it a little push. A shower of raindrops leaves her chilled and then the wind closes the door again, leaving them both inside.

"Good night," he says pointedly.

"Derek … it's Thanksgiving."

"Yeah. I know." There's no emotion in his tone. No sense that he spent fifteen other Thanksgivings with her. Eleven married. Four before that. Every single one … together.

"I waited for you," she reminds him. Her voice is shaking a little. She'll have emotion for both of them, if she needs to. If it will help.

"And then you set a bear trap."

"I didn't – "

But he almost sounds like he's smiling. She's dizzy trying to catch up. _I don't know_ , that's what he said. He doesn't know if he loves her. He might love Meredith too. He might understand what happened with Mark and he might just be –

"Derek?"

He nods shortly; she sees it in the glow from the inn.

"Come inside with me?"

He shakes his head. "You go," he says.

 _I'm gonna go, you stay._

But no, the opposite.

 _Get out._

She shivers a little. Only because it's cold, because of the rain that's sunk into her clothing. That's all.

"I'm cold," she says. She hears her plaintive tone, knows she's manipulating him, doesn't care. Not if it gets him to come inside. Not if it gets them both away from _I don't know._

"Go inside," he says, like it's just a reasonable suggestion, and not a door slamming in her face.

"Come with me?"

"Addison – "

"Just come in for a little while," she cajoles. "I won't – try anything," and she tries to sound like she's kidding.

"Addison."

"It's cold," she says. "Have a drink. A drink will warm you up."

A drink will keep him from driving.

Maybe.

A drink is a stupid suggestion.

Maybe.

But he throws the car in park, so maybe … it worked.

Inside, the inn is larger than it looks from the outside, not really her kind of place but the location works and even if it has that faux-rustic vibe she doesn't love … the sheets are soft enough, and the bathtub large enough, and her life in Seattle _sad_ enough, that it's fine.

Really, it's fine.

Derek holds the door for her for all the world like it isn't strange that he's here, in her hotel, when he's done absolutely everything possible to stay away, including in the moments leading up to his entrance tonight.

She's setting her bag down, unloading what she needs, what passes for _routine_ when you live in a hotel room and that's all you have.

She's pouring a shot for each of them.

He downs his in silence before she's even pursed her lips to say – what? Happy Thanksgiving? Thanks for coming up here?

Derek is just looking out the window, the empty glass in his hand. It's too dark to see anything, but still, he's looking.

Long moment pass.

"It's late," she says finally, tentatively. "You should just – you could just sleep here."

"You could have picked a closer hotel," he observes without turning around.

"Closer to the hospital, you mean?" She drapes her damp cardigan carefully across one of the chairs.

He nods.

"I wasn't trying to be close to the hospital, Derek. I was trying to be close to you."

There's silence for a moment.

He turns around.

But –

"I'm going to shower," he says, that's all, for all the world like it's his hotel room too.

Well. He'll have to use her shampoo … which is small comfort, but it's something.

..

"That's my shirt," he says, frowning a little, when he emerges from the steaming bathroom with damp hair and a towel wrapped around his waist.

She looks down at the faded print of the oversized t-shirt she's been wearing to sleep, the untucked hem. It _was_ his, once, and it used to smell like him.

"I'm sorry," she says.

"That you stole my shirt?"

"That too."

He's not really listening; he's patting his hair dry with a second towel, shaking it out heartily, like he's spending the night camping. "Did you happen to steal any of my pants?" he asks. "Because that would be convenient."

Since he asked …

She digs out the old hockey sweats of his that have been _hers_ for a decade, the ones she brought with her from Manhattan, because it seems only fair that he should get to wear them tonight. Except he's not allowed to take them when he goes.

Not if they're going to be all she has left of him.

"Did they shrink?" he asks, suspiciously, when he's pulled them over his hips.

"Maybe you grew." She makes her face innocent when he glares at her and then she glares back and for half a second they both half smile.

It's silly to hope. Even if it's Thanksgiving, it's silly, but in that one perfect moment he's hers, and maybe they can –

But then she remembers the jeep. His words.

 _What about her? Do you love her?_

 _I don't know_ , that's what he said. The same words he had about Addison. About his wife. He doesn't know if he loves either one of them. Her stomach turns over, her mouth sours.

She only has to close her eyes to see the way the two of them looked on that bench, their posture defeated in tandem, their bodies inclined ever so slightly toward each other. They looked intimate. They looked … together.

Self-pity makes her throat thick, but then she remembers how it must have been for him to see her with Mark.

 _I can't look at you. I look at you and I feel nauseous._

She started this.

She made it worse.

 _Your_ fault, her thumping heart reminds her. _Your_ fault, _your_ fault.

"Derek?"

He looks up.

"I'm sorry."

"About the shirt?" His tone is casual, even careless; he's not looking at her.

"No. I mean, yes, but – for … everything," she says.

He sighs audibly, a this-better-not-be-a-flipout sigh.

She knows that sigh. He's not in the mood for her.

What else is new?

"Derek."

He turns around enough to see her. "Addison … it's late."

"I know it's late." She draws a deep breath. "But I need to say something."

"That you're sorry? You already said it."

"That's not what I – " She stops. "Forget it."

"Oh, would you just … ." His voice trails off, like that – resignation, not even anger. He doesn't have to finish the sentence. She's the _queen_ , after all.

"All I wanted to say is that I'm sorry."

"And you already said it," he reminds her.

"I know. But before that, I – stopped apologizing. Kind of." She looks down. She sees herself stalking down the hospital hall with him, bantering in couples therapy, asking for things. Demanding things. _Then I'm not moving to Seattle._

"Addison …"

"Would you just let me – I stopped apologizing," she repeats, "not because I stopped being sorry, but because I think I was hoping it wouldn't seem so terrible if … but it didn't work."

She feels a little twinge of embarrassment at the purposefully carefree way she danced around him on the ferry this morning, swinging in and out of his view, teasing him, for all the world like they were … married, or something.

But it was an act. She was performing.

Not because she doesn't want sex. Not because she doesn't want him.

But because it's hard to act … shameless, when you're filled with so much shame.

"I'm sorry, Derek," she repeats quietly. "I'm so sorry for what I did."

"Addison – "

"I don't – I don't think there are words to tell you how sorry I am," she plunges ahead.

"And yet, you keep saying words."

His tone is lighter than she expected, though, and somehow it breaks through her self-pity. Like he's still the husband who teases her.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, one more time.

He sighs again. "I know you are. Just – let's just go to sleep. It's late."

Her heart skips a beat. _Let's_ , he said. _Let us. AddisonAndDerek._ They haven't spent the night together since … well, since Mark. And Meredith.

She watches his gaze skates across the room when she draws back the duvet and for a moment she thinks he's going to tell her he's sleeping on the couch. She's preparing for it, schooling her face against falling and drawing breath to keep her ribs from collapsing on disappointment.

And then he surprises her by pulling back the other side of the duvet – his side – and sitting down, swinging his legs in, with the same movements as ever.

"Derek – "

His back is to her.

But his back is bare, and he's in her bed.

And yet … she can't seem to get in next to him. He's as exhausted as she predicted, because he sounds half-asleep the next time he speaks.

"Get the light … will you, Addie?"

She takes a moment to savor it – he doesn't call her _Addie_ much these days. She's Addison, almost all the time, gritted between disapproving teeth. Three syllables of resignation.

Then she flicks off the light and slides in next to him.

Next to her husband of eleven years, the one she's been sleeping next to for – more than that, off and on before they lived together, but … still.

And yet she's rigid with tension, so that the sheets feel rough and the old Derek would have noticed. Wouldn't he? This iteration of him is already sleeping heavily.

She'll go to sleep, then. She won't bother him, and maybe in the morning he'll –

"Derek?"

Okay, so much for that plan.

He wakes up.

To his credit, he wakes up. His pager, the alarm on his blackberry, and her calling his name – that's it, in her memory. It's probably not a victory so much as a learned response at this point, but he does wake up.

"What's wrong?" he asks without rolling over.

" …we did," she says.

"We did – we did what?"

When she doesn't answer he rolls onto his back, groaning. "Addison … come on, it's too late to play games."

 _Addison_ again.

She opens her mouth to respond, but no words come out. She finds herself just staring at him, wishing she could read his thoughts.

..

 _Just spit it out already._

He wills it, hard, but she doesn't say anything. Her lips are parted, he can see from his peripheral vision, but that's it.

He knows this game well. He's supposed to prod her for information, act out his dutiful role. It's no fun being passive-aggressive if she doesn't have a plaything. He's the mouse to her cat but he's in no mood for her claws tonight.

Isn't it enough that he's here, in her bed?

Why isn't anything ever _enough_?

"Derek – "

"I'm going back to sleep," he announces.

 _You had your chance_ , he doesn't say.

He turns back over, pulling on the duvet as he does – it goes easily; apparently she's not gripping it like she used to when he ... she always used to say she had to hang on or she'd end up with no covers at all.

He doesn't want this, a hundred memories of sharing a bed with her, from the narrow dorm mattress that squeaked down the middle to the one they christened in their first shared home.

Sleeping here was a mistake. He sits up, pushing the covers back.

"Where are you going?"

He sighs at her plaintive tone. She always woke up when he did. Always asked. He was only ever going two places, wasn't he? The bathroom, or the hospital. Hardly jet-setting in the middle of the night, but she always asked and never without a little underthread of anxiety.

This time, he doesn't answer.

What he'd like to do is drive back to the trailer, but he's smart enough to know when he's too tired to drive, and even if Addison is driving him to distraction he's fairly certain he'd still – even if the margin is slim – prefer her kind of aggression to that of a Chinese-food fattened bear or three.

"Derek, I just wanted to …" Her voice trails off.

 _Again_.

Jesus.

"Addison." He drops back against the pillows, giving up. A little. "What do I have to do to get you to stop talking?"

There's a pause where her hurt is audible, which isn't really fair. He's said variations of that before, in circumstances not unlike these, and her rambling isn't exactly a secret.

But he can hear her breathing, in that distinct way she does when he hurts her feelings, and he takes a moment to wonder the significance of how easy it is to recognize. Unlike so much of her artifice, thishe's fairly certain is authentic.

 _I want things to be normal again_ , that's what she said on the ferry, that pleading little undertone in her voice that wasn't quite a whine.

He waits.

And then she's blinking with confusion when he flicks on the light next to his bed.

"Now what?" Her brow furrows. "Derek?"

"I don't want to go in circles like this," he mutters, tiredly. "Just – tell me whatever you were going to tell me so we can go to sleep."

"All I was going to tell you," she says with dignity, back to herself already, "is that you were wrong, on the ferry."

He closes his eyes briefly.

"Why am I not surprised you woke me up to tell me I was wrong?"

She ignores him, continuing. "You said we never had to schedule sex in medical school. On the ferry, you said that."

"I know what I said."

"Well, it's not true. We did have to schedule it."

He massages the tension in his forehead. "Fine."

"Derek, don't you remember – "

"I said fine. You're right, you win, can we go to sleep now?"

"I don't win. I never win."

His eyes widen at the unfairness of it all. "You're feeling sorry for yourself?"

She doesn't respond.

They're talking past each other, like they did in therapy, except there they both won. They both convinced the therapist they were _winners_ , didn't they? Addison and Derek, back stronger than ever. Sometimes he's not even sure who's fooling whom.

The thought is depressing.

He reaches for the light to make the room as dark as his thoughts.

"Finals," she says in a small voice, as his hand hovers over the switch.

"Now what?" he asks irritably.

"Finals." Her tone is resolute. "Finals, first year _and_ second year. You had a roommate, I had a roommate – "

She conveniently doesn't mention that his roommate was Mark, of course.

" – and remember, before O-Chem first year you swore you were going to fail if we didn't find a way to – "

" – take the edge off," he finishes, without really meaning to.

"Take the edge off," she repeats, sounding triumphant. "So we made a schedule."

"We made a schedule," he echoes, remembering. They even had Mark sign it, and – "take the edge off," he repeats, rather than focusing on his roommate. He finds himself making a face. "Did that really work with you?"

She laughs a little, self-consciously. "You weren't running game, Derek. I wanted to schedule sex just as much as you did."

His mind conjures up Addison in medical school, all on its own, she's laughing in a rumpled oxford shirt, her hair a finger-tangled mess, index cards everywhere, pages of notes. She squeals when he rolls her over, onto her back, and then fishes a highlighter out from underneath her with a rueful grin. _I'm going to have some interesting marks_ , that's what she says. _I'll show you interesting marks_ , he teases her, and they're off to the races again. That's what _scheduling_ is when you're twenty-three and insatiable and _god_ , they're old.

"We're not old."

Did he say it out loud?

She's smiling a little when he turns to her. That self-conscious smile again, not so different from the one on the girl across from the cadaver in anatomy lab.

He opens his mouth to say – something, he's not sure what – and she surprises him by crossing the distance between them and covering his lips with her warmer ones.

He responds automatically at first; her lips are as familiar as his own or more so, but her lips also remind him of –

"Stop."

She does, leaning back and looking up at him through her lashes. "I'm sorry."

"And stop apologizing."

"Okay," she whispers.

He looks at her for a moment – the parts of her he can see, half covered by the duvet; her half-bare shoulders look uncharacteristically narrow in this position.

They were so young.

 _I'm going to kiss you. Not if I kiss you first._

He finds himself extending a hand, not really sure why. He brushes one delicate collarbone and feels her sharp inhale. His hand curls, as if of its own accord, settling loosely around her long neck. Her pulse flutters against the pad of his thumb – fast, madly, like the lightning bugs he'd trap in jelly jars on childhood summer nights.

She doesn't say anything, at first. He moves his thumb, carefully, stroking the column of her throat and she shudders a little.

"Derek, I'm – "

"Don't say you're sorry," he warns her.

"Okay, I won't," she whispers, and he releases her, quieting her with his lips instead. She responds instantly, greedily. Her mouth opens under his and then she's grasping him like a lifeline as he hovers above her, feeding on her need.

Her skin is warm through the fabric of her shirt – _his_ shirt – and she's arching her back off the mattress, pressing against his hands, wanting more.

Addison always wants more.

 _Derek, I want to get through this._

He has to close his eyes for a moment.

"Derek?"

She sounds anxious.

He can't fool her. Can't hide from her, not really. Maybe he should have known she was waiting for him in the dark, in the parking lot. That his stolen private moment with Meredith wasn't private at all.

Addison … is everywhere.

She's everywhere right now, anyway; he's not tired anymore, he's not old, either. _Take the edge off_ , that's what he said fifteen years ago. Her edges are sharper now, but underneath – there's softness, and she sighs the same way she used to. Twines her fingers in his hair like she always has.

 _I wanted it to mean something._

That's what she said about Mark. About _Mark._

But Addison always wants it to mean something.

 _I was thinking we could have sex tonight._

Rip the stitches, that's what she wanted.

Is that what they're doing now? Ripping something? Hoping to find a healed wound underneath?

They're doing … something. He didn't know what it would be like, before they started. Angry, punishing? Rote and tedious? Some sort of – passionate reclaiming?

Turns out it's none of those. It's … quieter than he might have expected. Not gentle, exactly, but not rough either. She cedes control to him and he moves inside her with intent but no real urgency.

It's not what he pictured, maybe, though if he's honest he didn't picture it at all. Picturing would mean facing: he left instead. Left the ferry, and didn't look back.

She still feels familiar underneath him, though, in the dark where he doesn't have to see their mistakes.

 _I guess I don't really know either_ , that's what she said. His muscles tighten at the recollection; with their bodies so close, she must be able to feel it. He braces himself above her and she responds in turn, hissing almost inaudibly at the movement of his hips, and he stops.

Of course he stops.

"No, it's okay." She looks up at him, eyes wide in the dark. He can see their sheen, if not their color. "No anesthesia, right?"

"Addison …."

She leans up to kiss him before he can finish, and she tastes salty. Before he can register this a sharp pain flashes across his lips. He pulls back, and she's half-smiling up at him.

"No anesthesia for you either?"

He thumbs the sensitive spot on his lip. She has sharp teeth; that goes without saying.

"No, I guess not."

It's true, he can feel everything. There was a time their back and forth would have devolved into something else, something fiercer and faster. Now it's as exhausted as they are.

She's still wearing his shirt.

"I'm sorry too," he tells her, when he's finished, when she's curled into him breathing tiredly against his neck.

So this is _ripping the bandaid off_.

This is _getting back to normal._

He feels … small, twenty-two, maybe a little unsure. But she's warm and heavy against him, and he remembers the feel of her throat under his palm and knows that some part of her must still trust him.

His last thought before sleep overtakes him is that her hair smells different here.

It smells like rain.

..

She wakes up alone, curled like a cat on her side, more or less hugging herself. Embarrassing, but there's no one there to see it, so it's fine.

Except there's a dip in the bed, on the other side, and then the night comes back to her with a rush of blood to her cheeks.

"Good morning to you too."

Derek looks … no worse for the wear, but then Derek never looks worse for the wear. It's part of his infuriating charm. He's turned away from her, looking out the window. He must have opened the shades.

Is he – automatically, she gauges his mood. Is it better? Are they better?

Or maybe he just needed to _take the edge off_.

She got what she wanted, though, didn't she? She stretches a little – she's still wearing the oversized shirt she put on the night before, and she finds herself flinching a bit at the motion.

It's been a while.

He notices, she can tell by the way the muscles in his bare back move even though he's not facing her.

Does she flinch loudly? Or does he listen well?

When he turns around he has a slightly raised eyebrow. _Are you okay_ , that kind of eyebrow. Marital shorthand code – maybe it's better when they don't talk, so she nods, smiles a little ruefully, _it's fine, honey, really._

She cries, a little, in the shower.

Just a little, and if no one's there to see it, then it didn't really happen.

And then they brush their teeth side by side in the fogged-up bathroom like they used to, and her traitorous heart flips so hard, shaking her hands, that she can hardly turn on the faucet.

"Derek … you don't know," she prompts him cautiously, as she finishes curling her eyelashes. He's long since shaved and dressed and is leaning against the wall by the door with the kind of patient annoyance she always chose to see as affectionate over the years.

"Hm?" He glances at her.

"You still don't know."

He seems to be considering the question. He doesn't ask, _still don't know what?_ For that, she's grateful.

Grateful enough that she doesn't make him answer.

Instead, she just tips her head forward to kiss him. He tastes like toothpaste and some of her long hair falls into his face. He laughs a little when he pushes it back and she laughs too, maybe with more hope than she should have.

"Let's go," he says, and at first she thinks he means to work.

..

He didn't mean work.

He drives them both to his trailer instead, to survey the damage she wrought the night before.

The night before, because this morning … is the morning after something happened.

Some _things_.

The other morning, the New York morning, she surveyed the damage alone. She surveyed the damage bleary-eyed through swollen lids in weak dawn light: her clothing, damp and scattered.

Ruined.

Her marriage ruined too. The great empty explosion of _nothing_ in the brownstone. Of a life disappeared.

Here, though … .

There's no damage at all.

The plastic-covered paper bag of Chinese food is sitting on the porch right where she left it.

"The bears … I guess they skipped over us," Addison suggests, hoping her voice sounds stronger than she feels.

"I guess they did." Derek sounds surprised, wonder lacing his tone.

It's a surprise.

It's more than she expected.

A lot more.

"I'm sorry I left it there," she says after a moment.

Derek nods. "You didn't know," he allows, his tone almost forgiving. "And anyway … it turns out the bears weren't interested."

"Yeah, well. That's … something to be thankful for?" Her voice rises on the end.

 _It's Thanksgiving._ Or it was, anyway, yesterday.

Derek glances at her. "Something like that."

And then his back is turned, he's moving away, and –

"Derek? Where are you going?"

Her voice warbles and she hates it. _Hates_ it. She knows he does too. And that's her fault.

 _Your_ fault.

 _Your_ fault.

"I'm throwing the food in the sealed cans," he tells her patiently.

Right. A little embarrassed, she nods.

And then something small and silver flies through the air and she catches it on instinct, turning it over.

A key.

"Oh."

That's what she says: _oh._ And then: "I'll, uh … I guess I'll go get coffee started," she says hesitantly, her own tone wondrous now, staring at the shining little wedge of metal in her palm.

Derek just nods, already on his way to the garbage cans with the plastic bag of food on one arm. His step looks lighter, unless she's imagining it.

She pauses for a moment to take it in. This misty morning in the woods, rain already turned her hair to frizz, this outdoor morning. This morning with _the edge off_. This Seattle morning.

This morning together.

It's peaceful but not quiet; they're not really alone.

No … she can hear something: chirping, buzzing, nature sounds? Rhythmic, like the wipers, like the voices that usually judge her.

But when she waits for judgment, it doesn't come. She hears something else instead.

 _Thank_ you, it seems to be saying, _thank_ you, _thank_ you, like that. In rhythm.

So she says it too.

 _Thank you_ , under her breath, right before she mounts the steps of the trailer and watches the little silver key slide right into the lock: a perfect fit.

* * *

 **END.** _This rusty, out-of-practice script flipper would be endlessly grateful for your feedback, as always. I will be updating my WIPs, but I needed to break the ice first, and I truly hope you enjoyed. Thank you for reading!_


	29. Before

Hi. I'm back. Thank you so much to those of you who gave meaningful feedback on the last chapter. I want to hear from you and I hope I'll continue to do so. You'll hear from me too. Like this flip, which popped into my head last night as a bit of a self-challenge in two parts: write a fluffy FTS, and keep it under 2,000 words.

I failed in both respects.

So here we are at like ... 8,000 instead. And it's not exactly fluffy. It _is_ hopeful, I think, like most if not all the FTS chapters. It's a little crack in the armor of Season 2, a chance for Addison and Derek to move toward each other instead of stalemate, or moving away. So there's that.

We're back in Episode 2.23. The one with the shower. I've flipped this before, twice: a lighthearted chapter (21) of this story, and then a darker piece in the standalone _Just Another Story_. This flip is a little different from both. In the actual episode, the scene fades out once they get in the shower, as we now. The last shot is Addison's hand on the glass. This scene extends before it flips, and started from the very simple premise of: what if she asked him to stop? The whole point of that scene, we're told, is that Derek is so raring to go with anger and jealousy after the McVet scene that everything just unfolds. Fast. And we don't see anything after the shower door closes.

I'm giving a content warning for discussion of past sexual assault (just to be very clear). It's not graphic, but it's present. This flip deals with some serious subject matter, but it's not all dark. Like all of these chapters, it's actually the opposite: a little break in the Addek arc, to let the light in.

Thank you, as always, for reading.

* * *

 **Before  
** _(Episode 2.23, "Blues For Sister Someone")_

* * *

At first he doesn't hear anything, over the sound of the pounding water, his own staggered breaths and hers. His senses are full to overflowing, to bursting, to the rhythm of their coupling. He's gasping for air – that's what he hears. That's all he hears.

Then it's his name that he hears, and he absorbs it like another breath. She's soft against him, melting into him, the pulse that's driving him so strong he's not sure he can survive it. He has only one thing in mind, room in the primitive brain that takes over in moments like these only for one word: _more._

He wants more. He needs more.

But then he hears it.

One word: _stop._

There's one moment of blank confusion.

"Stop. Derek, _stop._ "

Her fingers are gripping his arms; he thought she was holding on or pulling him closer, but now it's evident she's pushing him away.

Immediately, he freezes, his heartbeat so loud in his own ears that it sounds like the moment a jet touches down. A roar.

She's frozen too, under his hands.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

"Stop," she whispers.

That's all.

"I did. I stopped." He's confused and alarmed all at once; he's still holding most of her up but he's not moving, not anymore. Is that the issue? Carefully, he sets her on her feet. He's deciding whether to let go of her entirely when he notices she's shaking and holds on instead. Just her hips, just his hands, and then he takes a half a step backwards – as much as he can, in this shower, to give both of them a little relief.

She's silent.

"What's wrong? Addison, what happened?"

She's not _silent_ actually, she's breathing hard still, and so is he. Stopping in the middle isn't easy. It never is. And he's had to do it other times, for pages and phone calls and, more than once, being awkwardly walked in on. Not halfway, more like three quarters; he's pulsing like a heartbeat. He can feel that same pulse in his thumbs where they're pressing into her hips.

 _Stop,_ that's all she said. Of course, she's hissed at him to stop before, mainly when he's painfully trapped her long hair – but he figured out how to avoid that, for the most part, a few years into their relationship. She's readjusted his angle or directed him away from an unexpected bruise but – this feels different.

"Addison. What's going on?" Tentatively, he releases her hips. She's standing fine, though still trembling. He uses his freed hands to turn her face carefully toward him. Her hair is covering her expression, wet and disheveled; he pushes it back. Her face is white, her eyes huge. "Addison?" He moves one hand to shield her from the spray.

"I'm okay," she says, sounding dazed.

"Okay," he repeats. He cups her face a moment longer; her skin feels somehow cold and hot at once. "You sure?" he asks doubtfully.

"Yeah." She exhales harshly. "Sorry."

"It's okay."

Her gaze drifts downward. "Are you – "

"I'm fine," he assures her.

He's not.

He _is,_ but he's not. He's actually throbbing almost painfully; he's a little confused and a little worried, but there are still too many points of contact with her body – her wet, naked body – to settle him down even though he's well aware, intellectually, that they're finished.

She looks up at him through wet, spiky lashes. "I'm sorry," she whispers again, barely audible over the sound of the shower.

"It's okay," he repeats.

He's still trying to get control of his breath; the shower is still pounding hot water around them. Addison is still just … standing there; her arms are limp at her sides and they're trembling. Carefully, he moves her so as much as possible of her body is under the warming spray. He can't help hissing a little at this change in position, though, as the most sensitive parts of him brush against soft bits of her; all he can do is hope she doesn't notice.

Directly under the shower, she shakes less, but she still just – stands there, water sluicing everywhere. He reaches around her to turn off the water. Ruefully, he thinks he could use a spray of pure cold water, but the cold air with the water off starts to work its magic, at least.

When she makes no move to do so, he wrings her long hair out himself, so that it splashes audibly on the shower floor in the same sound pattern he can recall from every shower of hers he's overheard in their history, alone or together. When she showered first, that distinctive splash was the sound that meant she was finished and it was time for him to get up and get in the shower. An alarm clock of sorts. If he didn't heed it she'd climb on top of his supine body in their shared bed while he pretended to fend her off but actually enjoyed the feel of clean damp skin, the weight of her pressing him into the mattress.

Some mornings … she'd need a second shower.

That was a long time ago.

Now, in this life, tonight, he moves on autopilot, confusion giving way to routine. She's shivering in the cubicle of a shower. He's fetching her towel and holding it out for her – she walks straight into it, into his arms, surprising him a little; he thought she'd take the towel herself.

He closes his arms around her, flesh warm and damp through the terrycloth. She feels heavy and a little limp as she leans against him; he takes her weight, blotting some of the excess water from her skin with one hand while he supports her with the other.

 _Stop,_ she said, and he still has no idea why. Whatever it is, she's quiet – exhaustion, some lingering effect of the bad day she had that, he reminds himself with a flush of shame, she was trying to tell him about when he directed her into the shower? Or none of those; it was just – too much for her? But that doesn't seem right, not when it was nothing more than they've done hundreds of times. They've always had a shared affinity for showers; it was something of a joke between them, for years.

He was … enthusiastic tonight, fine. A little aggressive, maybe, but she's never complained about that before. And he was … distracted.

Maybe.

He might have been a little distracted.

He feels another warm flush of shame when he remembers the haze in front of his eyes when he walked in the door, heart still pounding from what he saw at the vet's office. He was angry, yes, but not at Addison, not this time. Angry, frustrated, maybe a little – distracted, too, but they were just talking about having better sex this morning, weren't they?

 _They_ , Derek and Addison. To be clear.

And this was better sex, wasn't it? Even if he was a little – distracted?

While she leans against him and shows no signs of wanting to move, and he holds her, swaying a bit unconsciously – like the only occupants of a strange sort of towel-wrapped dance floor – he revisits their time in the shower, searching for what went wrong.

He starts after the water did but before they got in. _Thank you_ , that was what she said when he gave her his invitation – the verbal one, and the not-so-verbal one where his clothes were on the floor and her eyes were on … not the floor.

She was trying to talk to him when he walked in, he remembers that. That wasn't his best husbanding, fine, because he wasn't listening and he didn't bother to hide it. But that was before the shower, and she didn't tell him to stop then.

She told him to stop in the shower. She pushed him away in the shower.

They were – in the throes, there's no other way to put it. It was fast and frantic, electric the moment he touched her and then tumbled them both under the spray, barely remember to drag the door shut behind them. Then she was pressed against that same door, their hands clasped together over her head on the steamed-up glass door. It's a familiar position for them; they just … fit that way, all of them together, and he was caught up in the moment. That much he knows. They turned around at some point. She initiated it, he's fairly sure. Did she say something to him first? _I want to see you_ , something like that. He can't remember; she may have, she certainly has in the past. She was frequently one to change horses mid-stream.

Then they were face to face, one of her long legs cradled in the crook of his elbow and both her hands on him, bracing herself. She was everywhere around him, warm velvet as the water pounded them both. He remembers her head against the wall of the shower and her long wet hair, the arched column of her neck, and not much else. Not until he heard her voice.

 _Stop. Derek, stop._

He heard her voice, telling him to stop. And then he stopped.

And that was it.

Were his eyes closed? Did he miss something?

"Addie."

She doesn't respond.

For a brief wild moment he wonders if she's fallen asleep on her feet. It wouldn't be the strangest thing, tonight.

Carefully, he peels her away from him. She's awake, though exhaustion is evidence in her face. The towel slips a little when he moves her and he helps her adjust it, and then _his_ slips and she's smiling a little when he stands back up.

Which is nice.

"Tell me what happened," he suggests quietly.

The hint of a smile drops off her face.

"It was nothing." She wraps the towel a little tighter around herself.

"It wasn't nothing."

But the long moments of closeness, the dance that was just for them, is apparently over. Instead, she's getting ready for bed as if nothing _actually_ happened.

He stands in the same spot while she moves around him, brushing her teeth – apparently not planning to finish the cocktail he interrupted her drinking, when he came home – sliding a nightgown over her head. She's plugging in her blackberry with methodical movements when he follows her and then covers one of her hands with his own.

"Addison."

"What?" She turns to look at him, long damp hair falling down her back. The nightgown is a slippery little silk thing, distracting, and he pauses for a moment.

Distracting.

 _Distracted_.

"Addie, I need to know what happened in there."

She looks away, a little flushed where the bedside light illuminates her face. "I said I was sorry."

"And I said you don't need to be sorry," he reminds her. "It's not about that."

She's leaning away from him, not quite sitting on the bed but resting against it. "Then let it go."

"If I did something to upset you – "

"You didn't."

"Okay." He draws breath. "Did I – hurt you?"

His voice sounds uncertain because he _feels_ uncertain. Neither of them has ever been one to have sex with gloves on. They've left marks, all kinds; she's always been vocal and responsive and let him know in no uncertain terms if something crossed the wrong border from pleasure to pain. _The good kind of sore,_ she would tell him sometimes after they'd been energetic or creative, curling up against him the next morning. _As long as it's the good kind_. And she would give him that slow, lazy smile. _The very good kind._

Was tonight different? Did he hurt her, tonight?

Mutely, she shakes her head. No.

"What was it, then?"

"Derek." She sighs a little. "I'm tired. Let's just go to bed."

He gives up.

..

Rain drums the trailer on all sides, reminiscent of the shower's spray. It makes the inside of the home he loves feel small and claustrophobic. He's shifting against the pillows, listening to her breathing and trying to settle, when he feels it.

At first she's just moving against him, her hand on his chest – it's cold, and he rests his warmer hand over it. She's shifting in a rustle of silk and then one of her thighs is brushing his, her cool hand sliding lower.

He lets her for a moment, more out of surprise than anything else.

"No." He takes her hand in his, stilling her movement. He feels her stiffen against him, hurt evidence in her voice when she responds.

"Why not?"

Now she's going to ask questions? Ones he's expected to answer, no doubt, even though she told him nothing.

"Because I'm not in the mood," he says shortly.

"You were in the mood before." She actually sounds – hurt? Disappointed? After he asked her _so_ many time to explain, and she just –

He shakes his head.

"Derek – "

But his annoyance with her is making the throaty purr of her voice hit all the wrong keys. Irritated, he sits up in bed, pulling away from her, and flicks on the light.

She comes into full view then, squinting. "What are you doing?" she asks. One of her hands floats up to block the light.

"I don't know," he admits.

He tracks her gaze. She inches closer.

"No," he repeats. "I said no. Not tonight."

She closes her eyes. "I'm sorry," she says.

"It's fine." His voice is tight.

"I'm – "

"Would you just stop apologizing!"

He's louder than he intends to be, surprising them both, and she's still close enough to him that he can feel her jump at his tone.

Then he's the one apologizing.

"I'm sorry," he mutters into her damp hair. "Okay? I'm sorry." He holds her for a moment, trying to recognize the shape of her under slippery silk, to figure out what went wrong. Just now, and before.

And before that.

Before all of that.

He frees a hand to stroke her hair.

"I couldn't see you."

She says the words so softly, into his shoulder, that he isn't quite sure he heard them.

"You what?" He shifts a little. "You couldn't see me?" he repeats, doubtfully.

He feels her nodding against him.

"When the lights were off, you mean? Before" He feels confused again. Clumsy.

"No. Before that." She pauses. "in the shower."

"In the – " Now he's even more confused. "Addie, can you just – okay," he says as he peels her off him carefully, enough so that he can see her face.

One second where he's falling into the depth of her eyes, they're bottomless in this light, all smoky iris, and then she's squinting again.

"Derek … turn out the light."

She can wrong foot him so easily and she's done it again with this request. "But we're talking," he says, hearing how stupid the words sound.

"Not with the light on, we're not."

Her voice shakes a little.

"Derek, please."

One flick of his hand and the trailer descends into darkness. He feels some of the tension drain out of her where her body rests against his. But she still doesn't speak.

"I turned off the light," he says after a few long moments of silence. "I followed your lead, I did what you wanted. Are you going to tell me what happened, now?"

..

She's toying with the hair on his chest; her fingers are cold.

He's waiting. He's still waiting.

"I couldn't see you," she repeats, finally.

He nods; something about the velvety darkness compels him to stop rushing her. That, and a growing sense of unease. "In the shower," he prompts her after a moment.

"Right." He feels her breathing against him, and then she pulls away; in the darkness, he can't see her: he has to follow her movements from sound and memory and touch. She's turned to her side, he feels the shape of it – the dip of her waist and the rise of her hip – under the silk that brushes his palm. He follows her lead and turns on his side too. They're facing each other now; he can feel the tail end of her exhales tickling the base of his throat.

There's space between them, but not too much to cross.

He stops trying to push her, but it's hard not to try to reconstruct.

 _I couldn't see you._

She couldn't see him, in the shower – she must mean the first round, then, when he had her pressed against the glass door. Their hands were folded together, a point of connection along with all the rest, but not their faces. A curl of guilt twists his stomach. Was she telling him to stop already at that point, and he missed it? Because she couldn't see him?

A cool hand on his chest stops his thoughts. "Not then," she says. In the dark it's just her voice, her very familiar and – right now – very soft voice. "After, when we were – I opened my eyes." She sounds almost shy. "I opened my eyes and I looked at you and your eyes … ."

Her voice trails off.

"Mine were closed?" he guesses.

"No. They were open."

He's lost.

"They were open, but you weren't – you weren't there."

"I don't understand."

"You were somewhere else." Her voice cracks. "You didn't see me and I couldn't see you and I just – "

 _Stop. Derek, stop._

She just stopped him.

 _I couldn't see you._

"I'm sorry," he says, "if I was – distracted."

There's that word again: _distracted._

"That's not what I mean. Just forget it," she sighs – he feels the sigh, full force, hot breath against his skin and then feels her turning over.

Away from him.

"Wait." He grasps a handful of silk that slides between his fingers. "Addison, wait. You can't just – drop that and not explain it."

She ignores him.

"Addie … "

It's a tone that usually works on her, a soft entreaty, but it doesn't seem to be working tonight.

Finally, he takes the closer of her bare arms in his hand and pulls gently to turn her back toward him. She freezes in his grip, muscles so tense she's practically vibrating; he releases her automatically.

And turns on the light.

Then she's squinting again, half covering her eyes, half up on her elbows. She's caught between him and the wall of the trailer and she looks – uncomfortable. Even trapped.

What the hell is going on?

He speaks her name, letting his impatience creep into his tone.

"Now what?" In contrast, she sounds … weary.

 _Join the club._

"I'm not asking you anymore. I'm telling you. I need to know what happened. Stop playing games and just – "

"I'm not _playing games_!"

She's the one to raise her voice now.

He sits up, pushing the blankets to his waist.

"Derek? Where are you going?"

Her voice sounds high and thin now.

"I'm not going anywhere." He's not – he's just sitting there, trapped under the weight of the blankets.

"Oh." Is that surprise, in her voice? "Can you turn out the light, then?" she asks.

"No," he says, keeping his tone mild. He turns to her. "We need to talk."

"Now you want to talk." She glares at him, apparently adjusted to the light. Enough so to fight back, anyway, he can hear it in her tone before her words. "When I want to talk to you, Derek … you're busy. You're always busy."

"I'm not busy now."

"Maybe I'm busy now," she counters.

He looks from her slippery little nightgown to the bed itself. "You don't look busy."

She groans, flopping back onto the mattress with her face in her pillow. "Just leave it, Derek. Leave it alone."

He watches her breathe for a moment; half of her back is bared by her nightdress but her long damp hair covers swaths of her skin. He's not sure why he can't … how did she put it? _Leave it alone._

Is it another power struggle? Like the shelves he never wanted to cede to her when she moved in, like the trailer itself?

"Look. Something happened," he says quietly. She doesn't react, but he can tell she's listening. "Something happened and I still don't understand what it was. But I was part of it, and if I was part of it then I need to know what it was. So if you know what it was … then you need to tell me."

She lifts her head marginally from the pillows. "I already told you."

"Then you need to tell me again. Because I didn't understand the first time."

There's a long moment of silence, and then she sits up. One of the straps of her nightgown has slipped off her shoulder; automatically, he hooks a finger in it to slide it back up. Her eyes are trained on his hand when he releases her.

" … I need a drink," she says.

Even though she's already brushed her teeth.

He was confused, earlier. Even worried.

But now, for the first time, he's actually frightened.

..

He fixes the drink, though, while she sits where he left her and watches, and makes himself one too. When he brings hers over she's sitting on the edge of the bed in much the same position he found her when he came home earlier tonight. She accepts the glass and takes a few long sips before she looks up at him again. He's still standing up, not for any particular reason, just –

"I need you to sit down," she says.

His heart thumps.

"Not like that," she says hurriedly. "Not like – bad news sit down. Just … regular sit down, because I have to tell you something and that's just not the right – just – thank you," she says, when he pushes the pillows back a little so he can sit down next to her.

She swishes her drink a little before she speaks.

Cautiously, he rests his free hand on her back; she doesn't protest.

Finally, he feels her indrawn breath against his palm.

"I didn't plan it," she says. "Before, in the shower, I didn't expect it. I just opened my eyes, that's all."

He nods. He's done pushing; he just waits for her to continue.

"Your eyes were open too. I looked at you. You weren't looking at me, though, you were looking – through me." Her voice cracks a little, again. "At something else – someone else – I don't know. But it wasn't me. Your eyes, they were just … ."

Her voice trails off.

Shame heats his cheeks once more. Does she know him that well, that she can – even when his arms were around her, her legs around him, they were as close as two people can be? She still saw through that enough to know he was distracted? To know that the frustration he was venting came from someone else entirely?

"I'm sorry," he says, not sure what else to say.

She waves her free hand dismissively. "You're allowed to think about someone else, Derek," she says. "I mean, I'd prefer Monica Bellucci or whoever to Meredith Grey, but … that's not really in my control."

He feels more naked than he was before. "Who's Monica Be – whatever?" he asks weakly.

"You know, she was in that movie."

"That movie," he repeats, then pauses. "Oh, is she the one with the – "

"No," Addison says patiently. "That's Liv Tyler. Monica Bellucci's eyes are brown."

"Oh." How does she keep track of this? But it's her job, the same way cleaning the grill at their summer house is his. Tasks divide like that, in a marriage. They just … split up.

Addison is still talking, trying to orient him: "Remember, she was wearing that thing you liked with the – "

"I remember," he says, because they're getting off course and also, admittedly, because it's true.

He's not surprised; you can't have sex with the same person for sixteen years and never talk about fantasies, never pretend to be other people, never let your wife buy you a gladiator costume and – the point is, this is not surprising.

Naming Meredith … was a little more surprising.

 _You're allowed to think about someone else, Derek._ But he certainly doesn't want to think of her picturing _Mark._ He doesn't want to think about Mark, period. It makes him queasy, even angry.

So that's why she pushed him off, why she stopped him? She thought he was thinking about Meredith, and she was angry?

But she didn't seem angry, before.

He's seen Addison angry, plenty of times. He flashes back without much effort to a fight in the brownstone when his gesture of frustration knocked a decorative china bowl to the ground. It shattered and she turned on him in a rage; he thought for a moment she was going to slap him but she didn't – she pushed him against the same shelves that once housed the now-shattered bowl and kissed him with a ferocity that left him unclear whether they were still fighting. As did the rest of that encounter, as he can recall; in the end, it was probably sixty-forty fight to making up, and they both walked away bruised. He cleaned up the shattered bowl himself; she sat on the edge of the dining table in her underwear and watched him, he remembers this, drinking a glass of wine. He's fairly certain when he'd cleaned to her satisfaction he cornered her on that same table and she wrapped her long bare legs around him, drawing him in. He could never escape her, back then. He could never imagine wanting to escape her.

She was angry, then.

But tonight, in the shower? That wasn't anger.

"Usually, I can see you," she says quietly. He studies her pensive face and says nothing. "If I open my eyes, you know? I can see you. But I couldn't, before."

"I'm sorry," he says again. The word has been batted about between them more tonight than he can remember. They keep passing it back and forth like a hot potato. Hers, his, hers again.

 _I couldn't see you._

Then he looks at her, really looks at her. He knows, maybe he's known from that moment in the shower and just didn't want to know. Maybe he thought he could ignore it and it would fade away.

"Who was he?"

..

The rain's stopped. It's so quiet, too quiet.

"Just some guy." She's looking at the lowball glass in her hands. "He was Archer's friend, older, I was flattered. It's not earth-shattering, it's just – it's idiotic."

"It's not idiotic."

She continues as if he never weighed in. "I, uh, I don't actually remember his name. I don't know, maybe I blocked it out or whatever." She pauses, her tone changing. "He … had a Corvette. That, I do remember. It was white. On the outside, I mean."

She takes a long sip of her drink. He's holding his, for something to do with his hands, really. They feel clumsy and oversized, like he'd hurt her if he tried to touch her. He keeps them to himself and just listens.

"I was fifteen and he was a college freshman. I didn't, uh, I wasn't getting a lot of attention from guys in those days."

This much, he knows. That she was a _late bloomer._ He always found it endearing, and in his experience she more than made up for it later, but this – this he doesn't know. This he hasn't heard, before tonight. He waits for her to start talking again.

"He didn't know me, he probably thought I was more … experienced than I was." The ice in her glass moves again.

Derek frowns. "It doesn't matter how experienced you were or weren't, Addison, if he – "

"I told him to stop. That I didn't want to." She looks up at him. "He didn't listen."

"I'm sorry." He's trying to focus on her and not on the anger that's coursing through his veins, blurring his vision. "I'm so sorry, Addison."

"He didn't rape me, if that's what you're thinking." Her words are clinical, even cold. All he can do is listen. "It wasn't like that." Her voice shakes a little. "I told him I was a virgin, which was an understatement at the time, and he was – he said I could make it up to him."

The words repulse him.

"I didn't want to. He just moved me around like I was a rag doll or something. I remember the gear shift digging in, right here." Her hand drifts, and the logistics fall into place with nauseating clarity.

"I froze, I guess. I didn't even try the door. Not before, just after, and it was – it wasn't even locked."

"Addison – "

"I was clueless. I had never even seen … ." She shakes her head a little. "He wouldn't let me up and I thought I couldn't breathe, you know, that I was choking. I couldn't move. He was holding my head and all I could move were my eyes. I remember I kept trying to look at him – I actually thought if I could catch _his_ eyes, if he saw me, he would realize he was hurting me and let me go."

He doesn't want to hear any more. His stomach is in knots, his throat thick.

"And then he looked at me." She takes another long sip of her drink. "He was looking down at me except .. he wasn't. He looked right through me. Like I wasn't there. Like I didn't exist." She pauses. "I stopped fighting him after that and it actually – it made it easier – "

"That was smart," he says quietly. "Whatever got you through, was smart."

"Smart?" She looks at him, eyebrows raised. "Hardly. It was stupid. Everything about it was stupid. _I_ was stupid."

"You weren't stupid, Addison. You were fifteen. And even if you weren't, it was his fault. Not yours." He pauses, thinking of everything he knows of her teenaged years. "Did you tell anyone?"

"Then? No. Archie would have killed him and that would have been messy … and no one else would have believed me. Or cared, even if they did."

It's a bleak statement. To put it mildly.

"I told Savvy later, in college. Nai. Everyone has a story like that, Derek. It's not that big a deal."

"It's a big deal. How can you say it's not a big deal?" His voice is louder than he intends, and he forces it to quiet down. _Everyone has a story like that._ That can't be right – can it? It's Addison, minimizing her own pain. It has to be.

"The door wasn't even locked. I could have just reached out and opened it. I just … ." Her voice trails off.

"You just froze. It's a natural reaction."

"Yeah." She looks down at her hands. "I thought maybe someone would come out, or … but he had the lights off, and everyone must have been sleeping. It was late."

 _Sleeping. Late._

Confused, he tries to piece it together. Does that mean … ?

"Yeah," she says again. Her eyes are dark when she looks at him. "We were in my driveway."

Revulsion floods him once more, leaving his hands weak. All those years of Addison begging off visiting her parents' house, shuddering as they pulled onto the property, telling him how much she disliked it?

"That's not the only reason," she says quietly, looking at him, apparently knowing just what he's thinking. "But … yeah." She looks down at her hands again. "It didn't exactly help." She swipes at her eyes. "Anyway, it was dark and I – when he let me go I couldn't get the door open, my hands were shaking, and he opened it for me – he actually went to kiss me goodnight, before I got out of the car." Her voice is thin. "Which is – I was just on autopilot by then, I let him do whatever he wanted and then I got out of there and I threw up. He had his headlights off when he was driving away, I don't even – it was so dark I almost slipped in it. I left my shoes in the back garden. I never cleaned it up; I heard like – thirdhand that Bizzy blamed Archer and he never snitched. He must have thought I was just drunk."

It's the largest swath of words so far. She draws a long breath when she's finished, like it took a lot out of her.

"I'm sorry." The words feel meaningless, but they're the only ones he has. "Addie, I'm so sorry."

She's staring at the floor again. She looks up at him from under her lashes and it seems terribly important, what he says next, but he has no idea what it should be. _I'm sorry._ He already said that. _I didn't mean to remind you –_ no, that's foolish, and it's not about him. _I'm going to find out his name and track him down._ That's foolish too; didn't he just say it wasn't about him, and his anger? Blindly, he searches for the right words.

Then she's crying, the first tears she's shed that night, and his words don't matter anymore. Carefully, he takes the drink out of her hand and sets it down on the floor before he pulls her into his arms. He's careful, even hesitant, but she goes willingly and her tears wet his neck while one of his palms cradles her still-damp head and the other traces patterns on the slippery silk over her back. He doesn't say much – nonsense words and sounds, the human equivalent of the soft rain that's started up once more against the tin trailer roof.

She slumps quietly against him after the storm and then, finally, with his help, sits up again.

"Sorry," she says.

That word is going to lose all meaning, tonight.

He just shakes his head. He brushes some damp hair away from her face, skims his thumb over the last of her tears.

She still seems to think he needs an explanation. "It's not something I – I didn't plan this," she says; presumably she means telling him at all.

"I'm … glad you told me."

That sounds wrong.

"I just mean – I wish you'd told me before," he says softly.

She shrugs a little. "It wasn't relevant. It wasn't something I talked about, not when we met, and then after that it wasn't relevant. It wasn't even something I thought about, you know, but I had a patient a few years ago who – but it doesn't matter."

"It matters." And then his heart is racing again. His stomach feels hollow with guilt; he's retracing every encounter he can remember – which he can't, because there are too many, but guilt crashes into the memories of his hands in her hair, cupping her skull, her eyes looking up at his. He didn't know, she didn't tell him, but he's sickened anyway. He wouldn't have –

"Stop it," she snaps. There are tears in her eyes again when he looks at her, her face tight. "See, _this_ is why I didn't tell you. And I was right. I was right not to tell you."

"Addison – " He reaches for her, and she pushes his hands away.

"Stop it. Stop – feeling sorry for me or whatever." She glares at him.

"I'm not feeling sorry for you," he says helplessly. "I'm feeling … sorry, period. That's all. If I had known, if I knew, then I could have – "

"Could have what?" She raises her eyebrows, a challenge. "Cut _that_ out of our sex life completely? Seriously? You want to take back every – give me a break."

"That's not what I meant."

"Sure it is. It was _forever_ ago, Derek. It's barely a – barely a memory at this point. You think I can't enjoy myself, with you? Not ever? That I was, what, faking it all these years?" She sounds offended, even angry.

"No, Addison." He's distinctly uncomfortable now. "That's not what I meant," he repeats. "I just meant I would have – I don't know – "

"Thought about it," she finishes his sentence, annoyed. "You would have thought about it and you would have been all – hesitant and mopey and I didn't want that from you, Derek, I never wanted that from you. I didn't want kid gloves. I just wanted you."

Her words hang in the air for a moment.

"I haven't thought about that night in a long time," she says quietly. "I was just – I was on edge tonight, I had an awful day, and I was – it was _fine_ in the shower, Derek, before. I know you were distracted but you're still – you," and she smiles a little, a soft lazy smile he knows all too well, and he manages to feel a little prickle of pride in all the confusion and distress of the rest of the evening. "It was just when I opened my eyes and I didn't see you. That's all."

"I was there." Tentatively, he reaches out a hand once more, and she lets him sweep her long hair away from her face, cup one damp cheek in his hand. "It was still – me, like you said," he continues.

"I know. It was just for a second. That's all." She looks down at her drink, then back up at him with her bottomless eyes. "Thank you for stopping."

"Don't thank me for stopping," he says shortly. "It's not a – it's not a favor. Anyone would have."

He hears his words as they leave his lips.

"Anyone should have," he corrects. "Anyone should."

"Maybe anyone should," she acknowledges, "but that doesn't mean anyone would have."

"Addie."

Her gaze turns far away. "There wasn't any word for it," she says quietly, sounding reminiscent again. "There would have been words, maybe, if I told someone, but just words about me. Like _stupid_." She pauses. "And a lot worse. I chose to be there. I chose to go out with him."

"Addison." He's disturbed that they're back to this.

"The point is, it was … a bad date." She shrugs a little. "In 1981, it was a bad date."

"It was a hell of a lot more than that," he says sharply. "Whatever year it was."

Addison at fifteen – hair she hadn't quite learned to tame, and a band uniform.

The same eyes though. Expressive, inescapable, the kind of eyes that track you and pin you in place. He knows what they look like when she's frightened and he knows what they look like when she pleads and his stomach turns over once again.

"Derek."

He looks up at his name. Her eyes are very soft, now. Familiar. "I'm okay," she says. "Really."

Slowly, he nods. "You're okay," he confirms.

She leans in, slowly, covering the distance between them to kiss his cheek. Her lips cool are still from her drink. She rests the palm of her hand over his heart and he feels, from the inside, what she must feel through his skin. One more glimpse of her hazy eyes with their indefinable color, and he closes his own. Her forehead rests against his now, her breath gentle across his lips.

Long moments pass in silence.

"I love you."

The words hang in the air for a moment, the shock of them enough to open both their eyes, apparently. The dark burst of those words, what's left after a flash photograph. Look too closely and you'll see stars for hours.

 _I love you._

It's the first time he's said those words, since her arrival in Seattle. She's said them, he hasn't.

 _I just know I still love you._ That day, that was the first time … but not the last.

She's backed away enough now that he can see her eyebrows have lifted with genuine surprise, and then her eyes are shadowed again. "Don't say it if you don't mean it."

"I don't say things I don't mean."

She considers this. "Yeah, I guess you don't. Derek?"

He nods.

"Now can you turn the light off?"

..

They're lying in darkness, fingers entwined. It's a complicated dance with nothing touching except their hands, but it's electric enough to keep him awake. He's thinking and he knows she is too but it's that touch that's refusing sleep.

"Your day," he says.

"Hm?"

"You didn't tell me about your day."

He feels rather than sees him turn toward her. "My day," she repeats doubtfully.

"You said I wouldn't believe the day you had," he prompts her. "Remember?"

"I remember."

"So. Try me," he suggests. "Tell me about the day you had. Maybe I'll believe it."

She tells him.

He believes it.

..

They're still awake. Rain drums the trailer, steady and soothing; she's settled in his arms, but they're still awake.

He feels her shaking her head against him: exasperation. He doesn't have to see her face to know that.

"What is it?" Her head is resting on his chest just below his chin; his cheek brushes her skull when he speaks.

"Alex Karev," she says darkly, after a moment.

"Ah." He pauses. "I thought you didn't want me to get you started on him."

"I didn't. But I started anyway. That little – he's trying to ruin my reputation!"

"He'll fail," Derek says simply.

She doesn't respond.

"You want me to kill him for you?" he asks.

She actually laughs a little; it leaves a warm curl of hope within him. "Where did that come from?" she asks.

"I don't know." He considers the question. "I mean, I wasn't crazy about him to begin with."

 _And then … ._

No need to finish that.

And just like that he's angry again; his heart is pumping as fast as it was the moment she pushed him off her in the shower, but for a very different reason. _It was a long time ago_ , that's what she said, but adrenaline flows nonetheless.

It's not defensible.

It's not forgivable.

He'll find him, it can't be that hard, even without a name – Archer would help, if he asked, he's certain of it, and then he'll –

"Derek … ." She turns in his arms, and presses one of her hands to his cheek. "Don't," she says softly.

The palm of her hand grounds him.

"I can't help it," he mutters.

"Yes, you can." She leans her head against him again and he strokes her damp hair. "You _can_ help it. You helped it before, in the shower. You're – " She stops.

He catches her drift, though.

"You don't scare me," she says quietly, after a moment of silence.

"Good," he says, a little hesitant.

"I scare me," she admits.

"You … scare yourself?" He asks, trying to sort it out.

She nods; he feels the moment of her damp hair against his bare skin. "I do things, that I don't … ." Her voice trails off. "You think I have bad judgment?" she asks abruptly.

"No," he says at once. He doesn't even have to think about it.

She sits up a little, and he lets her.

"What about Mark?" she asks in a small voice, not quite looking at him.

"Other than Mark, which was … spectacularly bad judgment … still no," he amends.

"My patient wanted that procedure, Derek."

"I know."

"She begged me to do it and I did what she wanted even though I knew it could backfire on me. And she's just – she's going to lie about it and Karev reported it and everyone is just – leaving me out there to deal with it, alone." She stops talking.

"You're not alone," he says.

"Tell that to my malpractice premiums." Her voice has that blustery air – like she's pretending it's a joke, but it's not.

"You're not," he repeats. "Hey," he adds when she doesn't respond. "I'm on your side."

"Yeah?" She looks up at him. Her expression is troubled. "You were tonight," she admits. "And I – appreciate it. I do."

"You don't have to thank me," he says patiently; he's said it so many times tonight, but he'll keep saying it if he needs to. "And I'm on your side with this case, too, Addie, whatever happens with it. Including legally speaking. Your bills are my bills," he reminds her. "We're married."

She seems to be considering this. "We're married," she repeats.

"We are. We have a piece of paper that says so."

"And we have one that says the opposite too." She leans back against him once more, and they settle into the pillows with a series of long-memorized movements. "But you didn't sign," she says.

"We're back to this?"

She hasn't mentioned the divorce papers in months.

"You never told me why you didn't sign."

He feels a headache growing behind his eyes – better than the priapism of earlier this evening and the twenty-five-years-too-late rage that followed, sure, but it's not exactly comfortable either. "Addison … ."

"What?"

Her tone is a challenge. So she's not backing down.

"I didn't sign because we decided to try." He's said these same words before, and they sound wooden, and she's not satisfied; he can tell just by the feel of her in his arms without her having to say anything. "Addison – what is it you want me to say?"

"I don't know," she admits.

"Then I'm not sure it's fair for you to expect _me_ to know."

"I guess you're right," she says after a moment.

He blinks into the darkness. Addison, conceding a point to him? It's rare but it happens; he'll have to be extra cautious now. She'll get him at the net when he least expects it.

"Derek … there are things we should talk about." Her tone is hesitant.

"Yeah." In the darkness of his own memory he sees a flash of green eyes, the arc of a thrown stick, early light. _Every other morning._ Hears laughter. "I guess there are."

He can't see her expression. He doesn't know what she's picturing, and doesn't really want to know, but the ball is hers again. She's right. There are things that they should talk about.

"Not tonight, though." She decrees it quietly, leaning against him again, and he's relieved – both that she was the one to say it and that they can end the conversation now.

He finds himself holding her tightly for a moment, even if he's not quite sure why. She doesn't ask, but he feels her fingers tight on him like the moment she stopped him in the shower. Except this time he's not wondering whether she's pulling him or pushing him.

This time, he knows.

"Derek … ."

"Hm?" He's half asleep, one hand tangled in her hair, one of her bare arms across his ribs.

"Don't kill Alex Karev."

He laughs a little, feeling her move against him as he does. "Okay. If you insist, I won't kill him."

She rests quietly against him again as they listen to the rain outside.

"You could give him some scut work, though," she murmurs. "Bowel prep, that kind of thing. I mean, if you want to."

"I'll keep that in mind."

He feels her lips curving into a smile against the skin of his chest.

She doesn't say anything else.

He kisses the top of her head; her hair is almost dry now, but still fragrant. It smells – like his, which is what happens when they shower together, as he knows from years of experience. Like they're extensions of each other. It makes it hard to know where one person ends and the other begins, sometimes.

Like how he's not really sure who falls asleep first, to the sound of the rain outside and two heartbeats … only that they're breathing as one, either way.

* * *

 _And that's all she wrote. This was a free write without a lot of structure, something that felt like it could have happened, even if it didn't. Treating serious subject matter with respect is important to me, so I welcome your **respectful** comments and feedback, whether in review or PM form. This unpleasant aspect of Addison's past is one that unfortunately seems to fit with what we know of her on the show, which is probably why it pops up so much. I think Addison was vaguely hinting at it during the PP Archer crossover, and I wrote that scene in my story "Eleven" in 2011. I guess it stuck with me since then. _

_Okay, with all that said, I'm still open to fluff. I wanted to write fluff. I tried, really. I'm always open to prompts, but I'm especially open to happy prompts today. Script flippers, I love hearing your thoughts, your prompts, your words, so I hope you'll review and tell me what you think!_

 _PS - I have updates of my other WIPs in progress, promise!_


	30. Just As Soon As I See Her

Hi. Happy Sunday. Long live the Addek revolution. Which is all to say - I'm working on my WIPs and, you know, attempting to be a productive member of society in my spare time, but **Addison-fan** requested a flip of "I Am a Tree," aka the one where McSteamy actually steams out of the shower and McDreamy's less than dreamy apology is rudely interrupted. Specifically, she asked for Derek to overhead Addison's drunken ramblings or be the recipient, of them, rather than Amanda - er, Miranda. I was hesitant at first because I thought it was too much like "Branches," one of my favorite FTS chapters, where Derek finds Addison at Joe's.

But one of the best things about FTS, at least as a writing project an an Addek-obsession project, is that one episode can lend itself to multiple flips. So I started wondering about how the episode might have gone down if Addison didn't actually get the day off for drinking. When she shows up in Richard's office, she's upset and wearing sweats and has a coffee stain - but she's sober. She hasn't started drinking yet.

What if she didn't leave? Those five words became a 12K word chapter because, well, I am me. We know that the hotel room scene was interrupted by Mark coming out of the shower. But if she never called Mark, and he never showed up? Derek was sitting on her bed in the hotel room by the end of that scene. So I liked **Addison-fan** 's idea.

(Title of course from Derek's line to Mer: _whatever you decide, I'm ending it with Addison. Today. Just as soon as I see her._ )

 **All that is to say** , here we are, at the start of season three. Note that the dialogue in Richard's office is verbatim from that scene, until it flips. You'll catch other bits of 3.02 throughout as well. Meanwhile, Derek's still looking for Addison, still insistent that he has to end it _today._ And Addison still _wants_ to drink - those tear ducts aren't going to loosen themselves. But ... she didn't get the day off for drinking. Maybe it could have happened like this:

* * *

 **Just As Soon As I See Her  
** _(Episode 3.02, "I Am a Tree")_

* * *

He raps on Richard's door as he enters his office.

"Hey, uh, Chief, you haven't heard from Addison, have you? She's not answering any phones."

"Actually, she told me she needed a day off," Richard says, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. "Something about finding another woman's panties in the pocket of your tux."

Any question he had of whether she knew what happened disappears. So much for coming clean. Derek closes his eyes for a moment, sighing a little.

"That's – that's not how I wanted her to find out."

Sinking onto one of Richard's couches, he massages his forehead.

"I didn't give her the day off," Richard announces.

Derek looks up, confused. The Chief refused Addison a day off, when he's always had a soft spot for her, and – based on his current expression – he's apparently taking her side in the breakdown of their marriage … again?

"I couldn't," Richard amends. "She barely got the word 'panties' out before we got a chopper transport – three car pile-up, pregnant driver, no time to waste."

"Couldn't someone else treat her?"

"As luck would have it … there were _two_ pregnant women in the crash. So no, unless Dr. Goldstein has grown another pair of arms since the last time I saw her, we needed Addie."

And she wouldn't say no to that.

"Is she – "

"She's been down there for a while." Richard checks his watch.

Derek sighs. "I was going to tell her," he says. Richard should know his plan. "I was going to tell her today. I was going to end it."

"Give her some space," Richard suggests.

Derek shakes his head. Giving each other space hasn't helped.

"Give her some time."

"No. No, that's not it. I've got to talk to her today. If something's over, it's got to be over. Meredith, she's not a – "

"Derek."

He frowns a little at the interruption. "Chief?"

Richard doesn't say anything. He just shakes his head, very slightly, an expression Derek knows well from all the years he's worked with the man.

It means one thing: _it doesn't look good._

He feels a slight twinge – Addison stuck on a hopeless case after finding out what happened between Derek and Meredith at the prom – but then Addison is a professional, an excellent surgeon, and she can handle it.

"Addie said she wanted the day off to do some drinking," Richard adds.

" …some drinking," Derek repeats.

"Some drinking. That was her request this morning." Richard stresses the word _morning_ a little, and then looks down at his folded eyeglasses.

"Richard, I appreciate your – I appreciate it," Derek says. He stands up. "Which OR?"

For a few moments the Chief doesn't speak.

Time ticks slowly. Derek tries not to be as outwardly impatient as he feels. He's aware Richard felt invested in the Shepherds' failed reconciliation. And no, the timing isn't perfect for his conversation with Addison, but it still needs to happen today. He's spent enough time trying to track her down. Checking the board is just another wasted step – Richard knows, he knows it.

It's time.

"Three," Richard says finally, a little reluctantly. He reaches for the reading glasses he removed at the start of the conversation. "But Derek, you should know that the patient – it wasn't looking good."

"I got it." Derek pauses. "OR three?"

"OR three."

..

He almost doesn't see her at first – it's dim in the scrub room, and she's leaning against the far wall looking down at the cap in her hands. Almost blending in.

She looks … tired, and uncharacteristically small. It's the flat shoes, the post-surgery letdown, that's all.

"Addison."

She glances up at him, just for a moment, before her gaze flickers away again – and doesn't say anything.

So it's on him, then. He shifts a little.

"I was looking for you," he starts, hesitantly, a little uncomfortable.

Still nothing.

"How, uh – " He glances toward the OR.

Mutely, she shakes her head.

No words needed. _She didn't make it._

"I'm sorry," he says sincerely, "about your patient."

"Patient _s_ ," she corrects him quietly, her voice a little husky.

So she lost the baby too. He finds himself flinching.

"Patients," he repeats, emphasizing the plural. "I'm sorry."

'I'm sorry too," she says after a moment, still barely looking at him.

He pauses. "Addison … we need to talk."

She raises her eyes to meet his. They look as tired as she does. "Yeah … I guess we do."

"Okay." He smiles a little, encouragingly, then glances around the scrub room. This isn't the place, but he doesn't want to lose the moment either. "Why don't we – "

"Derek."

"Yes?"

She clears her throat. "I need a minute."

He must look confused because she keeps talking.

"Can I just have a minute?" Her voice is still a little hoarse, he notices. "You need to – talk to me, I get it, but I just – I just need a minute. To shower, to – be ready. Can I have a minute?"

He swallows the retort that comes to mind – she didn't exactly give him a minute to prepare for what he walked into in New York.

But he can afford to be generous today, so he nods.

"Thanks," she says, her tone just this side of sarcastic.

"So you'll, uh, will you call me?" He pauses at the door, feeling foolish, like he's trying to set up a – date, with the wife who is no longer his wife in anything but name. "When you're ready, I mean."

"Yeah." She's not looking at him, fiddling with the pocket of her scrub top. "I'll call you."

..

She doesn't call him.

In spite of his instincts, he forces himself to give her some time – some space – as Richard suggested, part magnanimity and part practicality. He has work to do; he can wait.

After all, he's starting the rest of his life today … another few hours won't hurt.

And then he runs into Meredith in the hall and flushes at her uncensored gaze, glad he's not holed up somewhere having an unpleasant conversation with Addison.

This … this is so much better.

But Meredith raises her eyebrows when he tries to take her aside. "Are you still married?" she asks bluntly.

"… I'm ending it with Addison today," he repeats, "I told you," and she looks as unimpressed by his promise as she did this morning when she first heard it.

"But you haven't ended it yet," she clarifies.

"I tried." He pushes a frustrated hand through his hair. "I'm just waiting."

"For …?" Meredith prompts.

"For Addison. To be ready," he adds, feeling foolish again.

"Derek … if Addison were _ready_ to end things with you, wouldn't she be in New York right now?"

"Not ready like that. Ready like – she was operating." He sighs. "She was operating this morning and she lost a – she lost two patients, and I'm trying here, Meredith. I really am. I'm going to talk to her today. Addison knows I need to talk to her. She knows that – " He pauses, not wanting to say _she knows what happened_ in case it makes Meredith feel bad. She doesn't deserve that. "She must already know it's over," Derek says instead. "She should. All that's left is to have the conversation."

"That's all," Meredith repeats, her tone doubtful.

"Yes. That's all." He leans in, smiling a little. "So … will I see you later?"

Meredith looks like she's fighting a smile back. "What happened to _take all the time you need_? What happened to not pressuring me?"

"I don't want to pressure you. I just want to see you."

"Derek – "

"Yes, Meredith?"

"… go talk to your wife."

..

Meredith is right, though.

They need to talk.

An hour goes by, two hours, and she's had plenty of time to wash away the day's unsuccessful surgeries.

And still, no call.

He recognizes one of her nurses – it's the koala clipped to her lapel, it's memorable.

"Have you seen the other Dr. Shepherd?" he asks.

…and then finds himself wincing a little. It's been years of referring to her that way. Obviously, things are different now; some habits are hard to break.

He realizes, though, that he hasn't really considered this. Addison has been _Dr. Shepherd_ for eleven years. Sometimes _Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd_ , but the _Montgomery_ usually fell away. For a variety of reasons: space, time … and other things. _I only need one name,_ that's what she said. She was smiling at him at the city clerk's office, eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed – it was warm mid-spring; everything was blooming.

"Yes, Dr. Shepherd," the nurse replies. "She's in the NICU."

Of course she is. He should have predicted this. He's found her there before, after she's lost one of her tiny patients. As if she's tracing where the baby could have been, if things ended differently.

If things were different.

But he finds her, instead, sitting next to an occupied isolette with a chart in her hands, studying it raptly.

She doesn't look up until he speaks her name for a second time.

"Addison?"

"Oh. … hi," she says, slowly, like it took her a minute to recognize him.

She tracks his gaze to the isolette. "Shira's baby," she says.

"Shira – "

"Goldstein," Addison reminds him patiently. Ah, of course. The MFM Richard mentioned earlier, who was treating the second pregnant patient. "It's Shira's case. Technically. The mother made it," she adds, "she's still critical, and I told Shira I'd take over the baby."

 _Why_ , he wants to ask, _just to avoid me?_

She looks exhausted – Addison rarely sits down on the job unless she has a baby in her arms; just the fact that she's sitting by the incubator rather than standing is a sign of how tired she must be.

He swallows hard, bracing himself. "Ad – "

"Shira has a husband," Addison continues, cutting him off, though he's not sure she even heard the quiet syllable. "Shira has a husband, and two children. She has people waiting at home for her. This baby needs someone here."

He looks down at his hands, not really wanting to see her expression.

"And I don't have people waiting at home for me _or_ , you know,a home at all, so … yeah, it kind of worked out."

He glances into the incubator, trying to figure out what to do.

Months fall away and he's standing in an elevator with Bailey. _What do I do?_ He's sighing with the pain of it all. _Why does this have to be so hard?_

There's no perfect time. He inhales, preparing to start, but he sees she has a hand on the plexiglass now – just two fingers, really, tracing. It's her left and her rings catch the light.

One more thing that's going to change.

He finds his gaze sliding down to his own left hand. He hasn't worn his wedding ring since the night he left Manhattan. She stopped asking him about it after a month or two. But in the tinsel-draped cafeteria, when her right hand was in his left while they danced, she noticed. He could tell the moment she noticed and the one in which she declined to say anything.

He wasn't looking at her. Not the way he should have been. But she was in his arms, and he could still feel her.

Could feel her hand against his heart where he held it with his bare left one.

"Do you, um – "

"Derek." She says his name as a tired exhale.

He stops talking, and she turns to stare into the isolette again.

"So much promise." Her voice is soft. "I look at her, and … ."

Her voice trails off.

And then starts again: "She hasn't don't anything wrong yet. You know? Hasn't made any mistakes, hasn't done … hasn't done anything. Her whole life is in front of her."

Derek just watches. He's seen her at so many incubators over the years.

The technology has changed. The color of her scrubs has changed, her seniority has changed … and yet in some ways it feels like nothing has changed.

"Their lives will never be the same," Addison says, still looking with hazy eyes into the incubator. "But hers – she still has promise. She's still alive."

Derek glances at her; she's turned her head enough now that he can't see her face, but he doesn't need to see her face to know she's thinking about her two lost patients, from earlier today.

"You did everything you could," he says tentatively, one surgeon's reassurance to another.

"Did I? I don't know. Maybe." Addison glances at her hand where it rests on the plexiglass. "I wasn't my best, today. I don't think."

" _Not your best_ is still better than most people's," he reminds her. "Than most surgeons."

"And then I think," she continues as if he hasn't said anything, "that here are these people whose lives are … irreparably changed. Shattered, destroyed, beyond … any recognition. And here I am, feeling sorry for myself."

He doesn't say anything.

"But … there are a lot of different ways for a life to be over, you know?"

Her meaning is clear.

"Addison. Your life isn't over," he says, a little disturbed by her words.

"A third of it is."

"A third of it isn't the whole thing."

He repeats her name when she doesn't look at him.

She's looking into the isolette. "The first third of my life I was living with Bizzy and the Captain." Then she looks up at him, raising her eyebrows, as if to say _that doesn't count_.

"It's actually not … it's not a third, really," she continues.

Her voice is tired; he's trying to follow. She tilts her head, seeming to be trying to figure something out.

"What are you doing?"

"Counting," she says. "Counting … seventeen years."

He doesn't need to ask, _since when_.

"Seventeen." He stops. "Seventeen?"

She nods. "Well. In July."

He considers this.

"I'm thirty-eight." She says it matter-of-factly. "And I was twenty-two when – so it's not seventeen years yet and that's not a third of my life, is it?"

"No," he says.

"I went straight to medical school," she continues as if he doesn't know the map of her whole life, didn't used to think it was interwoven with his. "You know that," she adds. "Okay. So seventeen years – well, sixteen, okay, but I was eighteen when I left for college."

He waits.

"It's too much math."

"You're great at math."

"I'm great at math," she agrees, "but it's still too much. It's not a third of my life. It's closer to half. It's … most of my life."

It was supposed to be _all of her life_. She doesn't say it; he hears it anyway. Neither of them speaks for a moment, just the quiet sounds of efficiency, beeping monitors and soft-soled shoes slapping the floor and staff conversations around them, but at a distance.

Finally, he opens his mouth to say something – what, he's not sure, and then his comment surprises him.

"Richard said – he said you asked for the day off for drinking."

"Richard said that?" She glances at him.

He nods.

"Oh. Well, I … needed to drink," she says. "I _need_ to drink, still, but then I needed to operate and now I need to watch this baby until Shira's back."

"And then you can drink?"

"And then I can drink."

"So, uh." He looks back in the incubator. This timing still feels all wrong, but it's never going to be perfect. She's clearly tired, but it can't wait forever. He's not doing her any favors, dragging it out. "Addison. Do you think we can …. "

She's doesn't seem to hear him. She's standing now, leaning over the incubator, with eyes only for the tiny body inside.

He waits for her to look at him again before he talks. "… never mind. I'll just leave you," he says, hearing immediately how terrible his choice of words was.

But she's barely listening.

When he glances back over his shoulder she's consumed by the incubator once more, two fingers alongside the plexiglass like she can stroke the tiny life inside it.

..

 _It has to be today._

A few hours later, he finds a new sense of purpose.

It's getting late.

He knows Addison; she'll stay up all night watching the incubator even though the baby will have its own team assigned overnight. She's chosen the responsibility; of course she has. She won't want to let go. Which means, if he waits, that he'll have to talk to her in the morning – if then – and she'll be even more exhausted.

Overtired.

Possibly even emotional, and it's going to make everything harder.

He needs to do this. He needs to get it over with – rip the band-aid. It's not helping either of them to drag this out.

Congratulating himself a little for his thoughtful idea, he decides he'll buy her an espresso from the cafeteria first, and bring it with him.

He buys one for himself, too, and downs it in in one swallow as he walks.

Like throwing back a shot. Mark's the one who taught him how to do that. The first time, he coughed and sputtered. But it got easier.

This is good.

This plan is good. This plan is _right_.

He'll bring her the espresso, let her wake up a little, and explain to her what happened. She found the … panties, according to Richard, and he didn't mean for that to happen. But she'll understanding, he thinks, once he explains.

It wasn't right, what he did. Meredith wasn't an affair. Not a fling, not a cheap one-night-stand like Addison and Mark. She deserved better than the exam room that brings heat to his cheeks to recall.

And Addison, waiting for him on the dance floor, well.

He can acknowledge that she deserved better too.

She didn't deserve to find out that way, and it's not like he planned it. Not like he was thinking about the pockets of his tux jacket when he – it's just rote.

That's all.

So much of marriage is a rote back and forth, just like that.

 _I'll wash, you dry._

 _I'll drive, you navigate._

 _I'll be right back, okay?_

 _Okay_ , she said.

It wasn't okay.

He gave her his jacket anyway.

He actually took it off and placed it on her shoulders like he has a hundred times before.

 _It's cold._

 _Here you go._

He didn't tease her like he would before, years ago, that she should bring her own jacket – that maybe _he_ was cold too – it was always good-natured, he was already wrapping her by then in the jacket that he knew would be warm from his own body and she was sighing a little with contentment.

This jacket was different.

The jacket he hastily readjusted after the exam room.

The jacket with the pocket.

Of course she found it.

Rote. Right?

Addison always prepares their clothes for the dry cleaner. She just does.

And he _is_ sorry. He's sorry she found out like that. That wasn't what he intended.

He'll tell her that. He'll apologize.

He squares his shoulders, hefts the small paper cup of espresso – and then finds himself standing between two unfamiliar incubators, confused.

Addison isn't in the NICU.

He glances as discreetly as he can at the two isolettes nearest to where he found her earlier, not that he would necessarily recognize the baby.

She's not in the side areas, either – he does a quick check before flagging down a nurse.

"Have you seen Dr. Shepherd?" he asks, with a sense of déjà vu. "She was monitoring a preemie from the MVA this morning."

The nurse blinks. "I'm sorry, Dr. Shepherd," she says. "That baby … no longer requires monitoring."

 _No longer requires monitoring._

"When – "

"About an hour ago now."

He thanks her.

..

 _Patients._

That was Addison said, correcting him, leaning a little on the _s._ Reminding him she lost two patients today.

And now she's lost a third.

The baby was Dr. Goldstein's patient, technically, but that's not how it works with Addison. He knows this well. All patients she touches are hers. She focuses on their progress, absorbs their pain, celebrates their successes and mourns their degeneration.

Three losses in one day. A day she was trying _not_ to work.

A day she was trying not to work because of him.

He leans against the wall outside the NICU for a few moments, trying to gather his thoughts and make a plan.

An hour ago.

So she might have left – but no, he checks the log and she hasn't.

Somewhat reluctantly, he checks her office, a place he's mostly avoided. He knocks a few times, even presses his face close to the smoked glass. He can't see anything, really, and it gives him an uncomfortable sense memory he can't quite place.

She's not in the attendings' lounge.

His gaze skates over her locker – he knows the combination like all the numbers he somehow can't quite forget, no matter how long it's been since called them: _17_ , his baseball jersey; _12_ , hockey. _555-4653_ , his house growing up. And _555-8906_ … the store.

So her locker combination can't have changed that much. Numbers don't change, not the way people do.

He's not going to violate her privacy, though, and there's not that much he'd learn from the inside of her locker.

Except if her street clothes are there, he'll know she's still somewhere in her scrubs. Showering – the attendings' showers are single-sex. But he doesn't hear any water running.

Glancing a little left to right, even though there was a time neither of them would blink to open the other's locker, he sets the espresso down on the closest low table and then plugs in the combination he assumes is still – yes, it works.

The lockers are much nicer than the ones they had as interns – the metal high school-style lockers that made hollow liberty bell-style banging sounds whenever they opened or closed. These feel solid, hefty, and smooth. Wood, or some facsimile thereof.

Inside, it's – the same.

Addison had a system, and apparently still does: spare set of clothes at the back of the narrow hanging rod. Shoes on the bottom – the one place she showed economy when it came to footwear. The little black quilted bag – for fast turnaround, and the larger patent leather one with the flat top, for when she had more time.

None of that surprises him.

Two things surprise him:

First, the clothes hanging in front, in the _changed out of them today_ spot: sweatpants (his, but after eleven years of marriage there's no real demarcation anymore; he'll give her that one), a coffee-stained sweatshirt that makes him wince a little. Dangling from one of the side hooks: his old bucket-shaped fishing hat.

That's what Addison wore to work today?

Emboldened, he pushes the sweatclothes aside and – yes, the outfit hanging behind it is what he'd expect: a blouse in some slippery material and a black skirt. In case she needed fresh street clothes.

Not sweats.

He tries to picture her in the stained clothing that's hanging in her locker – she still hung it neatly, she's still Addison, even if the clothes themselves aren't neat – wearing that fishing hat, asking Richard for the day off.

To drink.

It's not a pleasant picture.

Not a pretty one.

But the second thing, the one that distracts him from the clothes entirely, he doesn't see until he's swept aside the set of clean, professional street clothes.

There, at the back of the locker, small and rather faded, he sees his own face. Twice.

Blinking, he pushes the clothes further and leans in to get a better look, catching an unwelcomingly familiar whiff of her perfume as he does so.

Yes, it's his face – his much younger face, a little overexposed and taped to the back wall of the locker.

It's a double strip of pictures; in the first, his youthful face is set and serious, though slightly blurred as if he's moving a little, as if he's just realized something. In the second, his tongue is sticking out; he's making a face at someone unseen.

Fifteen years slide away and they're in a little hole in the wall photo shop getting his picture taken for his first passport – they made it in just before closing, time was limited in those days. _Medical mission_ sounds a lot fancier than what they actually did, just over the border in Juarez, but he needed a passport to do so and until then he'd never left the country. He'd never needed one. _Hold still_ , the guy ordered him while he hefted the camera and Addison stood behind the photographer, reminding him bossily not to smile.

Which just made him smile.

Which meant they couldn't get the picture, which meant getting scolded by the photographer, who was ready to close up for the night.

Finally, Derek managed to school his face into something serious so the annoyed proprietor could capture his image – only to hear his girlfriend laughing in response. He made a face at her on instinct just as the camera clicked once more and the photographer barked that he was wasting film. He made them pay for all the photos, the strip of ruined ones and the "good" ones that eventually made it into the passport he'd use for the next ten years.

 _It was worth it_ , that's what Addison said, offering to pay for the strip of useless photos, but he waved her off. _I've got it,_ he said with mock grandeur, _what, you didn't think we were eating tonight too, did you?_ She laughed at this and begged him for the photostrip to keep. He refused her, teasing her, for a few blocks while she tried to find them in his pockets and passersby got annoyed with their antics. Finally, they struck a deal: she could have the photographs, but he wouldn't have to see them ever again.

They sealed the deal with a kiss – though in those days, it was never _a kiss_ , or even several, it was huffy comments and blocking traffic and everything disappearing except the two of them. Addison bought them both dollar slices to apologize for the photo store and they stood on the sidewalk laughing and pretending to blame each other for the photo debacle. She fed him her crusts and then she shivered – it was chilly that day, unseasonably so, it should have been spring. He took off his barn jacket and put it over her shoulders, he remembers. _That's silly_ , she said, _now you'll be cold_. He just put an arm around her as they walked. _I'd rather be cold than you be cold_ , he explained. _That doesn't make any sense_ , she protested, even though she was smiling. _It makes sense to me_ , he said.

Unconsciously, he runs a finger over the rough-smooth surface of the old photo.

She promised him he'd never see the picture again – has it been at the back of her locker all this time? Of each locker, as they walked the rapidly rising ladders of their careers in step?

He startles as he hears the door start to swing open. Quickly, he pushes the clothes back to their original position and closes her locker.

She's not here.

Before he can think too much about what _was_ here, he reminds himself that he needs to find her. Remembering at the last moment to grab the now-cooled espresso, he prepares for the rest of the hunt.

..

It's fruitless. He checks two on-call rooms – one of which is occupied in a way he would prefer not to have seen, though it would be hypocritical to suggest residents shouldn't blow off steam between shifts.

She doesn't call him.

She doesn't call, and he's pulled into one consult – _Dr. Shepherd, you're still here?_ – and then another.

He needs to talk to her today.

And according to his watch, there are only a few hours left of _today._

And she still hasn't called.

And no, Bailey hasn't seen her.

He doesn't question her further; she has enough to worry about after everything that's happened with Stevens.

He has access to her record, anyway, and Addison's still here – she hasn't checked out, and he did say he would give her time.

 _Give her some space. Give her some time._ That's what Richard said – but he was wrong.

And that was hours ago.

And it's enough.

He rubs his forehead tiredly. It's one conversation. That's all. It shouldn't be this hard. It shouldn't have to be this hard.

Addison is a professional. She's lost patients before. She's lost multiple patients in one day before; her tiny patients are exceptionally fragile. It's part of the job.

He blocks the view of her hunched figure in the scrub room, the way she was leaning over the incubator. There are too many call rooms to check them all, but he decides she's probably getting a few hours of sleep.

That's fine. He can wait a little longer, and if she's marginally rested maybe the conversation will be easier.

Because he told Meredith he was going to tell Addison today. And he's going to tell her today.

He has plenty of work to do, he always does; he'll use this time productively. There's still a little time left in _today_.

He punches the code to his office door and pushes it open – it's dark; interior offices are the price to pay for an academic setting and he's fine with that. It's not New York, with that dizzying view, and he doesn't want it to be.

But as he fumbles for the light switch, it feels – different, in his office.

He hears a sound.

Coming from – behind his desk?

Confused and a little wary, he tracks it.

… to a scrub-clad figure slumped against his desk drawers, facing away from him, holding a bottle in her hands.

Her very familiar hands.

"Addison?" he asks with disbelief.

She squints up at him. "'s too bright."

"You're drunk." He stares at her.

" _You're_ slutty." She actually gives him a lopsided half smile as she says it, then looks almost pensive.

Drunkenly pensive.

Her eyes are glazed, still half closed against the light. "Me too though, slutty," she murmurs. "So I get it."

"Addison." He shakes his head. "What are you doing here?"

"Your code's … the same," she says, scrunching her face thoughtfully. "The las' four digits of the – thing." Her words are slow and spaced; she's clearly been drinking for a while. "And your _desk_ is the same." He looks down at her lap, where she's clutching the bottle of Laphroaig that belongs in his bottom drawer.

"I think it's different … bottle," she says, slurring her words slightly. "'Cause you didn't bring anything with you. From home."

 _It's not home_ , he wants to say.

"I brought some things," he says.

Why is he bothering to correct her?

Why is he acting like this is normal?

"Addison." He crouches down to get a better look at her. She looks up at him blearily. She's leaning back against his desk, one leg bent and the other stretched out in front of her. It's a familiar pose.

She looks … she looks like she's given up.

He remembers her face in the scrub room. In the NICU. Yes, she's an experienced doctor, but it's never easy to lose a patient, much less three.

He's well aware.

Sighing, he decides he can … take it easy on her.

Their marriage is over, and she needs to know that, but he can still handle the subject with care.

Her eyes are very glassy, he notices. He reaches for the bottle, but she moves it, clumsily, out of his way.

"I don't wanna share," she says.

"It's actually mine," he reminds her, "so I'm the one sharing." He holds out his hand, but she doesn't hand him the bottle. Instead, she puts it to her lips and takes another long swig.

"Addison. What are you doing?"

She thinks about it for a moment, her brow furrowed. "…drinking," she says finally.

"I can see that," he says impatiently.

"You _asked_ me." She frowns. "I'm drinking. I was gonna drink, but Richard said I couldn't. I needed the day off … for drinking," she tells him, eyes wide. Her lids look heavy, sleepy. "'cause of my tear ducts … they weren't working."

It's convoluted, but he knows her well enough to get it, and it makes him feel vaguely uncomfortable. He swallows.

"Addison – "

She glares at him, glassily, from over the rim. "Go away," she says.

"This is my office," he says. "And I want to talk to you."

"Oh yeah." She pauses. "Then I'll go."

She makes no move to do so. When she goes to take another swig from the bottle, he reaches over and removes it from her hand.

"That's mine!"

"Actually, it's mine." He looks around. "Where's the cap?"

She shrugs.

He tries to remember how much was in the bottle the last time he poured out a shot. A lot, he's fairly certain. A lot more than there is now.

Her head tips back against the desk. Under the overhead lights, her skin looks pale. She's not wearing makeup, he noticed that before – but this lack of color looks like something else.

"Did you eat anything today?" he asks.

"…scotch," she says after a moment of what looks like major effort to think. "I ate some scotch."

He shakes his head.

How did this happen?

Maybe he should have insisted on talking to her right away, in the scrub room, before things could get out of hand.

He stands up, holding out a hand, and she looks at it like it's something curious.

"Addison." He reaches down, finally, and tries to take her arms but she pushes at him.

"No. I'm on the floor."

"I know you're on the floor. I'd like you to be off the floor."

"Nuh-uh." She shakes her head. "If you wanna talk to me, this is where I live now. The floor."

He sighs and sits down next to her. "You live on the floor?"

"Like Richard," she says solemnly, "'cause marriage is hard."

Well, he can't argue with that one.

She slumps sideways further, so that she's curled on her side on the floor.

… _great progress, Shepherd._

"Addison. Sit up."

"No. I like the floor."

"Addie."

"Don't say it." She tilts her head to look at him sadly. "Don't say _talk._ Okay? Don't."

"Okay, I won't." He slides his hands under her arms and pulls her into a seated position. She complies, limply, and then she's leaning against him.

"Good start."

She looks at him with big unblinking eyes. Her hair is hanging in her eyes and he pushes some of it back. "How drunk are you?" he asks.

"Very, very drunk." She laughs a little; it's a hollow sound. "But. Not drunk enough. 'Cause it didn't work," and she whispers that last part conspiratorially.

"What do you mean?"

"My tear ducks." She pauses. "Tear _ducts._ They're broken."

"Addison – "

"I wanted to do some … crying," she says slowly. "But it didn't work. Nothing works."

She looks from side to side, slipping down a little as she does so. "Need my bottle," she says.

"We covered this. It's my bottle. And you've had enough."

"My husband … screwed an intern." She says it slowly like she's working through a math problem. "In the hospital. In … his pocket."

"Addison."

"I remember it. If I _remember_ it, then I'm not drunk enough." She reaches past him. "Bottle."

"No."

"Please?" she asks politely.

"No. You need to sober up."

" _You_ aren't listening." She jabs a finger into his chest, or tries, but misses a little. "You don't listen to me."

"I listen to you," he says patiently. "I'm listening to you now."

She leans forward a little, her expression very serious. "Derek," she whispers.

"Yes, Addison?"

" … can you get me a drink?"

He almost smiles.

"No. Sorry." Helping her sit up against the desk first, he pushes to his feet, taking the bottle with him. "But I can get you something to eat."

She blinks up at him, looking puzzled.

"And coffee," he adds.

"'kay, coffee," she says neutrally. "But _not_ weak. I don't like weak coffee."

"Yes, I'm aware." He sets the bottle on one of his shelves, banking on her not being coordinated enough to get it again while he's gone. He pauses at the door. She's in no shape to see anyone else; their marriage may be over but that doesn't mean he wants her embarrassing herself unnecessarily either.

"Stay here, okay?" he tells her. "I'll be right back."

 _I'll be right back, okay?_

She doesn't say it: _last time, you never came back._

She doesn't say anything at all, as he closes the door behind him.

..

The cafeteria is artificially bright with the heavy feeling of those who are stuck there late into the night. Families, waiting or worrying or both. Overtired residents, nurses ready to switch shifts, grumpy attendings.

And … grumpy residents.

"Shepherd," Bailey frowns at him, "you're still here?"

"I'm still here." He's studying an array of none-too-appealing sandwiches; he looks up at her voice. "You're still here too."

"I am." She looks at the refrigerated case. "You stayed here for a sandwich?"

"… more or less." He gestures to the coffee service. "Fortification," he adds.

"Same again." She pauses. "That, and avoiding a difficult conversation."

Derek's cheeks flush. How does she know?

" … I'm going to go talk to Stevens," she says.

Oh. Of course.

"There's nothing in this cafeteria to make those conversations easier." Bailey sighs. "And if there were, I'm thinking they'd be sold out by now."

He has the urge to grab her, keep the conversation going.

 _Bailey – what do I do?_

She'll look at him with that combination of judgment and support.

 _It's not hard. It's painful, but it's not hard._

He wasn't sure, then.

 _You already know what to do. If you didn't, you wouldn't be in this much pain._

And then everything happened too fast. The train accident crashed into the hospital the way Addison crashed back into his life: quickly, no warning. Devastation everywhere.

Before he could ask Bailey what she meant. What she thought he _knew_ about what to do.

Because then, and now, he's not sure he knows anything.

At all.

"Good luck with Stevens," that's all he can manage as Bailey turns to leave.

She pauses just for a moment. "Same to you," she says.

..

"You got the bad coffee." Addison frowns.

"The barista's gone," Derek reminds her. He sets the paper sandwich bag down on his desk; no doubt she'll have critique for that too. "No Americanos at this hour."

She wrinkles her nose. He offers her a hand up; she ignores it.

After a moment, he lowers himself to the ground to sit beside her. She's in the same position behind his desk, leaning against it, looking at the wall.

"Drink the coffee," he tells her. "It'll help."

"I may be … beyond help," she says.

"No one is beyond help."

"My patients were beyond help."

He sighs. "They weren't beyond help. You helped them. It just – wasn't enough. Sometimes it's not enough."

"She was only twenty-two weeks. If she could have just made it a little longer – " she stops. "It was a girl," Addison says. "They were both girls."

"I'm sorry," he says. Carefully, he touches her shoulder. He is sorry.

He's sorry about the timing, and about – he doesn't like this, feeling like a heel, feeling like he's hurting her. Even if he's just trying to do what's best for all of them.

Bailey was wrong. Bailey must sometimes be wrong, because it's painful, yes, but it's also hard.

Why does it have to be so hard?

But it has to be _done._

"Addison," he starts quietly.

"Did you get any food?" she asks, looking up at him, her eyes bright.

"Did I – " He sighs a little, then rises to his haunches to get the sandwich he purchased before sitting back down again. "Here. And yes … I already know you don't like it."

She's opening the paper with interest. Drunk Addison can be many things: maudlin, occasionally morbid, more occasionally clingy, but inevitably … she's hungry. Which is fine, because in his experience, it's the quickest way to sober her up.

"Whole wheat bread," she says with palpable disappointment.

"What's wrong with whole wheat bread?"

She takes a sizeable bite before she tells him. "I have this plan. I'm going to get fat."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. Like really, gloriously _fat._ Just as a stopgap. Just 'til I figure out another plan."

"And the whole wheat bread is interfering with that?"

She nods, taking another big bite. "It's too healthy. You're too … healthy."

"Sorry."

"No, you're not." She swallows, then sips her bad coffee and scowls again. "I need a cheeseburger. Can you get me a cheeseburger?"

"Maybe later." He points to the sandwich. "Eat that first."

"Fine." She takes another bite. "I still look good," she says. "I may be _old_ , but I'm still attractive. I'm very attractive." She looks up at him; her mouth is full, her hair has dried in straggly, uneven waves, she's wearing scrubs and no makeup and her eyes are glassy with alcohol. "Aren't I?"

"You're very attractive," he says obediently.

"You have to say that." She points what's left of her sandwich at him, then pauses. "Or maybe you don't. Maybe you don't anymore."

"Addison – "

"I'm going to be forty."

"In two years."

"No. A year and a … something." She takes another bite. "You want a … twelve-year-old. Not me. Because I'm forty."

"You're not forty," he repeats.

"Derek – "

"Just eat your sandwich." He drums his fingers on his thigh, wondering how long it will take for her to be sober enough to talk.

"I'm desirable," she mutters through a mouthful of chicken.

She's been talking with her mouth full this whole time and he's been trying to ignore it – not because it's _uncouth_ , which is what she would say if she were sober. But because he's aware she only talks with her mouth full under two circumstances: when she's upset enough, and when she's trying to prove a point to her parents.

In his experience, those two situations were almost a complete intersection. _He's_ not the one who gets her upset enough to be … uncouth.

She catches him looking at her. "Desirable," she repeats, scowling, another bite of sandwich in her mouth making her words a little harder to understand. " _Wildly_ desirable."

He just nods. He's remembering the story she told him years ago, that when she was a child her mother warned her that if she talked with her mouth full, what was it – oh, yes. _Nobody will want to marry you and you won't have any friends._

You know, just – typical, old-fashioned, mother-daughter wisdom.

The Addison he knew in New York got a perverse pleasure out of flouting Bizzy's etiquette rules. Proving her wrong. She could talk with her mouth full and still have a husband. A loving marriage and loyal friends.

He glances over at Addison, who is slumped against the desk shoving the last of the sandwich into her mouth, one hand gripping the paper cup of inferior coffee.

Here, in his office.

In Seattle.

Where she moved for him.

Away from her practice, and away from her friends.

Because he was her husband.

 _Was._

"Addison," he says hesitantly.

"No … I don't want to talk," she mumbles. She takes a sip of coffee and then makes a face, apparently still not used to its taste.

"We need to talk, Addie."

She puts her hand up, touching his mouth – not completely, her reflexes are off, but enough. Gently, he removes it but she hangs onto his hand, surprising him.

There's a shred of lettuce on her scrub pants; he removes it for her.

"You and Meredith," she says quietly.

Slowly, he nods. "I'm sorry, Addison. I really am sorry that it happened that way."

"It didn't _happen._ " She frowns. "You … happened it."

"I wanted to tell you. I didn't mean for you to find out that way."

"The panties?"

He nods.

She wrinkles her nose.

"I'm sorry," he repeats.

"I washed them," she says.

"You washed them?" He's confused.

"Yeah." She's sounding very tired.

Addison and alcohol, when she goes overboard: she's a chatty drunk, sometimes a flirty drunk, then a hungry drunk, and finally a sleepy drunk.

He opens his mouth to tell her: _our marriage is over._

And sees that her eyes have drifted closed.

"Addison."

She doesn't answer, just leans sideways; he angles in to support her and then she slumps against him. She's breathing peacefully and evenly. She's fine.

"Addison."

Her body feels warm and heavy against his.

"Addie." He shakes her gently. "Come on."

"Shh," she mumbles, her head lolling. "Too loud."

"No, don't go to – Addison, stay awake."

"Why?"

"Why?" he repeats helplessly. Because they're on the floor of his office, because it's late, because as much as he's just trying to help from a distance she's technically in his arms right now, because he has no idea where she plans to sleep tonight or where he should – because he's starting to think that the idea that _when something's over, it's should just be over_ is a little oversimplified.

Maybe a lot oversimplified.

..

He lets her sleep.

It's a catnap, that's all, he's had more than fifteen years of Addison's tipsy catnaps. She'll wake up again, she'll be much less drunk, and then they can talk.

And then he can say it.

In the meantime, his legs are falling asleep and his wife, who in slumber is heavier than she looks, is not helping matters.

He tries to shift to get the desk against his back, at least, for a little support, and ends up waking her.

She blinks up at him, confused, and then pulls away. "What are you –"

"You were sleeping," he says, a little defensively.

"Oh."

"But you're awake now. That's good. You feel a little better?"

She doesn't say anything.

He stands up, staggering a little on his prickling legs, while she watches him.

"We need to talk," he says again.

She shakes her head. "Not yet."

"Addison. You said when you were showered, we could talk," he reminds her gently. The scrub room, that conversation, was hours ago and feels like longer.

"No, I didn't. I said when I was showered _and_ _ready_ ," she jabs a finger for emphasis. Her eyes are shining when she looks up at him. "I did shower. But I'm not ready."

Sighing, he extends a hand to her. "I don't know if I'm ready either," he admits. "But we still need to talk.

"Yeah … I guess we do."

She lets him take one hand, then the other, and help her stand. He gets her around the desk and about a third of the way to the couch before she stops.

"Addison?"

She's slumped back to the floor. Nervous, he drops down beside her – she seemed like she was sobering up, how much did she – but no, she's fine, just sitting pensively.

"Addison," he sighs, "can you please stand up?"

She ignores him, flopping down fully instead so she's lying on her back on the floor.

 _Great._

Then she's propped up on her elbows, looking at him.

"Come on, Addie, sit up – " he catches her around the waist before she can flop back down, hauling her upright again.

She links her arms around his neck as he does, adding enough ballast that the full weight of her is against him.

"Addison – "

Her face is very close. Her eyes are swimming with tears – apparently her ducts are starting to work at least a little bit – and he swallows hard.

It's not his fault.

One minute he's helping her sit up, trying to hold her steady, and then next she's covered the minimal space between them and her lips are on his.

He's shocked, that's what happens – shocked and he tastes scotch and, underneath it, the harsh white toothpaste in the locker rooms. Drinking Laphroaig right after brushing your teeth – if nothing else has, it makes clear how much she must have needed to drink.

He kisses her back – just for a second, a habit, and then extricates himself. He holds her shoulders, less because he thinks she'll kiss him again and more because he thinks she might slide down if he lets go.

It's fine. It was a momentary lapse and it's fine.

It's out of her system now.

It doesn't matter.

He can just reach, if he stretches his arm, the bottle of water he purchased with the rest of her sobering-up food.

He opens it for her. "Drink."

She takes a few sips and then offers it to him.

Habit, that's all.

He takes a sip before he screws the cap back on.

"Now are you ready to talk?" he asks.

"No," she says, and he supposes it's his fault for asking that way.

 _Our marriage is over._

Just say it.

Just –

She's asleep again.

 _Damn it._

..

Another cat nap. Addison's a dog person – he's aware this would surprise anyone familiar with her own far more feline tendencies – but her sleep habits, at least when drunk, are all cat.

Again, he lets her.

More sleep means less drunk and less drunk means more rational and more rational means they can finally have the conversation.

It's all for good reason.

..

"Derek?"

So she's awake.

"You kissed me back," she says. "Before. You kissed me back." Her voice is small when she continues. "Maybe we're not done."

"Addison."

"And … you forgave me." She blinks up at him. "For Mark. Maybe I can forgive you too."

His chest feels tight at the word _forgive_ , at the way she's looking up at him.

This isn't at all how this was supposed to go. Her voice is soft, her tone pleading. _Danger_ , that's what's buzzing in his mind, she's in scrubs leaning over him in the NICU, and he's losing the power to resist.

"Addie, stop."

She doesn't.

"Maybe I can – "

"No, just – stop." He pulls her down against him, ostensibly to quiet her, and she goes willingly. He can feel her heart beating through the thin material of her scrubs.

Distractedly, he rubs her back. She feels small, even fragile – not the villain he's been building up. The snake whose head he has to cut off to win the fair maiden, or … he's not even sure what he thought.

 _My home was wrecked well before you came into the picture_ , that's what he told Meredith.

It's true.

 _I'm just now done trying to put it back together._

That's the part where he's faltering, now.

"Addison – what are you doing?"

"Nothing." There's a petulant undertone that makes her sound very young.

He feels it again – her lips against the skin bared by his collar.

"Addison."

"I'm _not_ ," she says, tilting her head so he can see her expression.

Maybe it's true.

Maybe she _was_ just – breathing against him, maybe her lips just felt like a kiss, maybe sitting in this position is a bad idea.

He studies her parted lips for a moment. Her face is rarely this bare in the middle of the day, in public; there's no makeup to hide behind. He can see every part of it, even the fine lines around her mouth he'd never admit to noticing.

She inhales a little when he moves closer – just the barest bit of anticipatory breath. It's as if it pulls him in, though.

That's the only reason.

That's all it can be.

It's only the two of them in his half-lit office, the shades drawn over smoked glass, no window to the outside.

He's pinned by her breath but it's soft and somehow unhurried. She's as familiar as a memory.

He's –

He doesn't know what he's doing.

She holds on just a little longer when he pulls back.

"We're not doing this," he says.

"But what if we are?"

"We're not." He touches her face. "I'm sorry, Addison. I really am."

"Then what were you doing? Before?"

"Addison."

"Were you kissing me goodbye?" she asks in a very small voice.

" _Addison_." Her name comes out like a sigh this time. "You're … you're still drunk."

"Not drunk enough." She looks up at him. "It's still not working."

"Addison."

"Can I have some more scotch?"

"No."

"That's mean," she says. "You're mean."

Now sounds tipsy again and he regrets his actions. He regrets everything. Was he taking advantage?

That wasn't his goal.

"Derek?"

He looks at her.

"You weren't mean when you kissed me, though."

He smiles a little at this, in spite of himself. "Addison, we shouldn't – "

"Kiss me again," she says.

"Addie."

"It's okay." Her voice is very soft. One of her hands is tracing his collar. "We're married, Derek. Even if it's over, we're still married."

He doesn't kiss her.

It wouldn't be right.

She kisses him, though, and he lets her.

 _What the hell are you doing?_

But he's not doing anything.

Marriage is rote.

That's all.

Action and reaction, push and pull, yin and yang. Which is why when her hands slide into his hair to draw him closer, his slide just under her scrub top to feel the warm skin at her sides.

"Addie, wait."

She stops kissing him. She stays in his arms, though, so he can't see her face. She rests her chin on his shoulder and he feels her breaths against him.

"I need more," she says.

"More to drink?" Gently, he moves her away so he can see her face.

"Yeah, that too."

"Have some more coffee," he suggests.

"No." She wrinkles her nose. "That's not a drink."

"You've had enough to drink."

His point is proven when she raises a hand to touch his cheek – he lets her, he knows this is hard for her, but then he sees her intent and brushes her hand down.

"We're not doing this," he repeats.

"But … it wasn't good," she sighs. "The last time, it wasn't good. It was fine, it was okay, but it wasn't good."

He's trying to follow. "The last time?"

"The last time we – " She gestures. "It was fine," she repeats, "but it wasn't _good._ "

"Addison."

"The last time should be good." She blinks up at him. "We can do better. We can do better than the last time."

He shakes his head.

"We could just … have the last time. And then we could be done."

"We're not doing that."

"Why not?"

"Because it's not a good idea."

"Why _not_?"

He selects from the array of reasons. _Why not_ , indeed.

"Because we're on the floor of my office," he reminds her.

She smiles suddenly, disarmingly. "That hasn't stopped you before. Remember, in New York – "

"That was different, Addison."

She kneels up, holding onto his face with both hands. More sense memory; he has the urge to push her away but then she's kissing him again and then he's responding in spite of himself.

" _No_ ," he says, finally extricating himself. "You're still drunk," he reminds her, and as he noticed a hundred times over the years she's somehow stronger with more alcohol in her system.

"I'm not really drunk. Not so drunk. Not anymore."

"Well, you're not sober."

"No." She looks down. "That's true."

His hands are on her hips; he starts to move her and she does the rest of the work, easing away from him and resting her back against the back of his desk.

"I still think we could do better," she says.

He doesn't respond.

Then she's standing – on her own, he hasn't helped her – and she's at his shelves taking down the bottle of Laphroaig he didn't hide very well.

 _I still think we could do better._

He has a sense memory of early morning, laughing in bed. _We used to be really good at this._

Then the memory of what came next, it's night and dark outside but not as dark as it is inside him, he's inside her and they're inside the shower, water pounding him and he's pounding out his anger. She's wet and willing but her startled face with its parted lips sucking in a shocked gasp of air at the force of him … that face hangs in front of vision after, keeping him awake, when they've dried off and entered on one of those semi-frequent marital pacts not to bring up something uncomfortable again.

This time, he doesn't stop her as she takes a swig.

She offers him one next and he shakes his head.

"You're not drinking."

"Right."

"Derek." She frowns a little. "Why aren't you drinking?"

He shrugs a little, not really sure how to respond.

"Because you're not sad," she guesses. "You don't need to drink 'cause you're not sad."

"That's not why."

She's looking at him, waiting for … _something_ , and the tired set of her shoulders in her scrub top makes his stomach feel a little hollow.

A little empty.

A little sad.

"I'm sad," he admits. "This is … it's sad. I'm sad."

"I'm sad too."

"Yeah." He brushes some of her hair away from her face. "I know. We're both sad. And one of us should be sober."

She looks up at him. "We're not _us_ anymore. So there's not a _one of us._ "

He considers this.

"We used to be an us."

"We did," he says.

"And we were … good," she continues softly, uncertainly, "before, I mean. We were good, weren't we?"

"We were good," he confirms. "Together. When we were good, we were good."

She smiles a little at this.

And then somehow, despite how _wrong_ all of this has been, her next question still catches him off guard.

"Derek … did you love me?" she asks quietly.

He pauses, a little confused by the verb tense.

"In Seattle, I mean. Did you ever love me in Seattle?"

"Addison …."

"You never said it." Her tone is thoughtful, undemanding. "I said it, but you didn't say it."

"I know."

"Even if it's over." She sighs a little at the word. "It can be over and … love me." She pauses. "That's not right," she says. "Over, and … something."

Does he love her?

He did, he knows this.

For a long time.

He thinks of what he should say, what a better man might say: _I don't love you the way that I used to._ No. _I love you in a different way, now._ He considers it. _I'll always love the way things used to be._ That sounds wrong, somehow.

"You used to love me," she says in a small voice. "For – a while. You did."

A while?

God, it's been a long time.

He thinks about it.

Really thinks about it.

"Seventeen years," he says.

"No, sixteen. Seventeen in July," she corrects.

"In July." He pauses. "Is that how long I've – "

But he can't finish the sentence.

She's watching him.

"… that's if I fell in love with you that first day," he says, more to himself really, still trying to figure out the math.

"Didn't you?"

"Maybe." He smiles at her in spite of himself.

"Derek … I'm sorry. I really am." She moves over to rest her head against his neck. There's no pressure in her posture this time, and he lets her. "It's my fault," she says.

"No, it's my fault."

They sit like that for a moment. It's new, this framing of responsibility. Taking rather than rejecting. Mark was her fault. Meredith was his. She wanted to start over, and he wants to end it.

That's what he's doing now. Ending it.

Isn't it?

"It's both of our faults," he amends, then pauses. "I wasn't … fully honest with you," he admits after a moment. "I didn't – I didn't really give her up. Meredith. I didn't really give her up. Not emotionally, anyway."

"Yeah, I figured." She's studying her folded hands; this posture he knows well.

He nudges her gently with his shoulder, and she looks up at him.

"I … wasn't fully honest, either," she admits, not really surprising him. She's starting to sound a little more sober.

He remembers how Mark was trying to talk to him, during that unpleasant visit. Mark's insinuation that there was more to the story.

Maybe there was.

Maybe there's always more to the story.

Maybe he doesn't need to know.

Maybe he needs to know, but not right now.

"But I honestly wanted to make it work." She looks at him. "Did you?"

"I don't know," he admits. "I think I did. I thought I did."

"But you don't want me now."

"It's not that simple," he sighs, massaging his forehead where a headache is starting to throb. She drinks, he'll get the hangover. Marriage is like that: a give and take.

"You fell in love with Meredith."

"Yeah." He looks down at the hand in his lap.

"Why did you take me back, then?"

"I guess I loved you."

"In Seattle."

"In Seattle," he confirms.

"What about now?" she asks softly. "Do you still love me now?"

She's waiting for an answer, her eyes are still shining while they search his.

He stands up.

"Where are you going?"

"To get a glass," he says. "I'm a little too old to drink from the bottle."

She's watching him. "You're not old," she says quietly as he fumbles in his drawer.

..

The room is a little blurrier now, a little dimmer.

He sips, waiting _not_ to feel sad.

"It doesn't work," Addison tells him. She's sitting cross-legged on the floor, elbow resting on one leg with her chin propped in her hand.

"It might."

 _Liquid courage_ , isn't that what it's called? So why can't he just say the words?

 _It's over._

 _Our marriage is over._

 _I want a divorce._

 _I'm leaving you._

"Addison – "

"No. I'm still not ready," she says.

"I know."

"But you are."

"I … don't know if I am," he admits.

It's not just hard. It's harder than he thought it would be.

 _I'm ending it with Addison. Today._

It seemed so simple, before.

Then again, it seemed simple when she showed up, too.

 _Good. I want you out of here immediately._

Why can't it be simple?

Why can't _she_ be simple?

..

"I wanted to dance with you."

It's the first thing she's said in a while. She's switched to leaning back against his desk again, long legs stretched out in front of her, taking occasional sips from the bottle – usually after she refills his glass.

His head feels heavy. Tired.

"At the prom," she says. "I wanted to dance with you, at the prom."

He smiles a bit at this, sadly. "You did," he says. "We did dance."

"Only a little. Only until you left."

"You want to dance now?" He's teasing her, maybe.

He's not actually sure what he'll do if she says yes.

She smiles a little at this. "No," she says, apparently deciding to take the question seriously, "but I don't want to … never dance again."

"Addison."

"Don't." She waves a hand. "I know, you're – it's over, we're over. Is Meredith waiting for you?" she asks abruptly.

Her change in tone catches him off guard, and he frowns. "Addison."

"Derek, you can go."

He shakes his head.

"You did your … obligation."

"That's not what you are."

"Yeah?" She tilts her head, looking at him. "Since when?"

"Addison." He reminds himself that she's just lashing out. "I don't want to fight with you."

"Maybe I want to fight with you."

"Maybe you do," he acknowledges, "but this isn't the time."

"Just go, then," she suggests.

He frowns. If they're finished, that's one thing. "I'm not leaving you in my office. I'll drive you – " But then he stops talking.

He's not driving anywhere, not the way she keeps refilling his glass.

But also – drive her where?

Home?

Where _is_ home, exactly?

"Where are you staying tonight?" he asks.

"I don't know."

"Addison."

"I don't have a couch." She sighs.

He shakes his head, a little confused.

" _Richard_ has a couch," she reminds him, "and he lives on it … because marriage is hard, but I just have a chair here." She pauses. "I can live on my chair. Maybe."

"You can't live on a chair," he reminds her.

"I can't live in a trailer."

"You did live in a trailer."

"Before," she says. "I lived there before."

..

Time passes; his watch looks fuzzy so he's not quite sure how much time.

Enough that she sounds less tipsy, the next time she speaks.

"What about your records?" she asks, without preamble.

"What about them?"

"You don't want them?"

"I didn't say that," he reminds her.

"Well, you never let me touch them."

"They're delicate," he reminds her.

"Yeah." She looks down at her hands. "There's so much stuff in that house, Derek."

"I know."

"A whole house of … stuff. There. And we're here."

"I know, Addison."

"I don't want to deal with it by myself," she says softly.

 _You don't have to_ , but he doesn't say that.

He already left it all with her, he gets it.

He picked up and left, he gets that too, but – that was different.

"You don't have to deal with it by yourself," he says finally, not really sure what he's agreeing to.

There's a slight buzzing from the fluorescents. The light is enough to make his eyes ache.

..

" … the bowls from Turkey," she mumbles. It's her third turn choosing – no, fourth.

"The bowls – you mean the blue ones?"

"No, the other ones."

"Okay." He's tired too, finding his eyes growing heavy, more relaxed now. He's been absentmindedly playing with a strand of her hair, more to stay awake than anything else. "You can have those."

"Your turn," she prompts quietly.

He feels rather than sees her head loll against his shoulder.

"Um." He thinks. "The, uh … the sleeping bags."

"The flannel ones, or the fleece ones?"

"We don't have fleece ones."

"We do. Remember, all the static that one time, with Savvy and Weiss? Your hair was – "

"I remember," he says, as images flit through his head uninvited. Addison teasing him about his wild curls, Derek tackling her into the fleece to see if he could get her hair to stand on end too; she was trying muffling her laugher in his shoulder – not really succeeding, based on how Savvy and Weiss looked at them over the fire at breakfast, but they didn't judge.

"So … the flannel ones," he says, realizing she's still waiting. "I guess I'll take the flannel ones."

"Okay." She pauses. "Both of them?"

"Hm?"

"You said _ones_. Do you want both sleeping bags?"

"I guess so."

"Derek … I don't want you to take Meredith camping in my sleeping bag."

" _Your_ sleeping bag," he repeats, "you told me you hated those things."

"I don't."

"Fine, then you keep them," he says irritably.

Her breathing is harsher now – she's annoyed too, he can tell – but she doesn't make any move to get up.

"You can have them both," she says finally, very quietly.

"Thank you." He feels a little guilty. "Your turn," he reminds her when she doesn't speak.

"I don't want to play anymore," she says.

..

She dozes a little again, and he's not sure if he does too. Only that time feels warm and liquid. A lot of breathing. A closed office that feels separate from the rest of the world.

Then she's talking again.

"You're … with her, now? With Meredith?"

"I don't know." He winces a little. "I'm giving her time," he admits.

"Oh. Like I did." Addison glances at him sideways, behind a curtain of hair. "I gave you time, too. I was … I was waiting for it to pass."

"Yeah." He looks down at his hands, remembering the conversation.

"I gave you time," Addison says thoughtfully, "and you're giving Meredith time."

He nods.

"No one's giving me time."

"I gave you time," he says, a little annoyed at the unfairness of it all. "I took you back."

"I wanted more time," she says quietly.

Of course she did.

Addison always wants _more._

"I'm sorry," he says.

"I'm sorry too."

Because it's over.

It's over between them.

And if her head is in his lap while she stares up at the ceiling, a tipsy pose she's taken so many times before, and he's absently moving her hair away from her face, that doesn't change anything.

… because it can't, that's why.

..

"I know you don't want to do anything," she says. "But you think so too. Don't you? That we could have done better. We could have done better than the last time."

"We could have done better," he admits.

"Yeah." She sighs a little – her breath floats upward, like campfire smoke. "That's all I was asking."

..

"Derek? What happens next?"

She's turned away from him now, still curled on the floor with her head in his lap, but facing the opposite wall of his office. It's probably a good thing.

He can feel the tense muscles of her back where he's resting his hands.

"What do you mean?" he asks.

"If it's over, what do we – how do we _over_ it?"

He considers the question.

He ignores the _if._

"Papers," he says. "I guess we need papers."

"You didn't sign them the last time."

"No, I didn't."

"Do you wish you had?" she asks abruptly.

He considers the question. Would things be easier now, if he had just signed then? If he had taken her invitation to end it, sent her back to New York, continued with Meredith, enjoyed this year in Seattle?

He was angry when she arrived – and she was too, all huffy indignation and overconfidence. And then he didn't sign and she signed Richard's contract and he wouldn't move out of the trailer even when she begged him, offered to live in the woods even in anything with more than one room.

But he didn't sign.

He chose to try to make it work.

 _Just so you have all the information, my home was wrecked well before you came into the picture. And I am just now done trying to rebuild it._

Did he choose wrong?

"I still have the papers," she tells him quietly. "They're in my office."

He doesn't respond.

"We could sign them," she says. "We could sign them tonight."

This is good news. He should jump at this. It will make everything easier. They can sign, and it will be over. The lawyers will file, and it will be over.

Except for the trailer.

And the brownstone.

And their summer house.

And all the other bits and pieces of their eleven-year marriage they'll have to separate.

 _Which sleeping bags?_

 _Your turn_ , he said, but she didn't want to play anymore.

She turns over so she can look up at him. "Do you want to sign them tonight?"

"We don't have to sign them tonight," he mutters.

There's no reason to put her through that, when she's obviously having a hard time letting go.

She pushes herself up a little – he has to help; the position is awkward. Then she's sitting and half-leaning on him, too close for comfort.

"But do you _want_ to," she asks again insistently, "do you _want_ to sign them tonight?"

"I already said no."

"You didn't."

"Addison." He massages his forehead. "Just drop it."

"But you said that – "

He kisses her to keep her from haranguing him, on pure instinct, _rote marriage_ , like he's done so many times with a mixture of guilt and relief, so often that he forgets it's no longer appropriate.

She starts to pull away and he threads his fingers into her hair; she stops fighting him almost instantly and melts into the kiss. He captures her lips again when they pause, drawing her into him.

She's quiet, so it's working.

And she's a little breathless when he lets her go, which is typically the goal. _Fair play_ , that's what they used to call it.

Even if it was anything but.

 _God_ , he needs to get out of this office. It's making him lose his mind.

She's looking at him.

Slowly running a finger over her lower lip, she just looks at him. "Derek … you're going to have to find a better way to win arguments," she says, "if we sign the papers."

 _If._

"We haven't signed yet," he reminds her. "So it's still fair play."

She doesn't respond.

..

The thing is, when something is over … it should just be over.

… it should be a lot of things.

..

She's lying on her back alone now, spread out on the carpet like a snow angel, staring at the ceiling. He knows her well enough to know this means she's _less_ drunk.

Because of time. That's the only thing that really works.

Because they've been in his office, on the floor, far too long.

With no small amount of effort – time, age, alcohol – he stands up, his knees cracking a little, and extends a hand that she ignores.

"Addison. Can we at least sit somewhere else?" he asks pointedly. "Instead of the floor?"

She doesn't answer, just opens the bottle again.

Sighing, he sits down again, flush against the desk.

His back is going to ache in the morning.

She eases onto her side, slowly drawing into a sitting position instead of lying down flat.

 _I'll meet you halfway_ , that's what they used to say when one of them was home and the other at the hospital, or he was at his private office and she was offsite.

Now they're both sitting up.

He glances at his watch; _the morning_ isn't that far off.

 _Today_ is over. Did he do it? Did he end it with her, today?

She's next to him, the warm weight of her slumped a little against his shoulder. He's slumped a little too.

She's notably less drunk as she was when he found her; he's quite a bit drunker than he was.

Maybe now they're the same.

Rote marriage, half-and-half. _You get the chicken, and I'll get the fish._

Half and half, back and forth, put-together-no-man-tear-asunder and then he's very tired again.

He tips his head back against the desk for a moment.

..

"Derek?"

"I'm awake," he says.

Her face is very close to his.

"Are you … okay?" she asks tentatively.

He considers the question. It feels a little off, a little wrong – but then so does he. "I don't know," he admits.

She presses the cold neck of the bottle into his hands. "Have some more. It'll help."

 _I may be beyond help._

He takes a sip straight from the bottle like she's been doing, making a face as it goes down hard.

She laughs a little at his expression and then he does too.

"That was rough," he admits.

She takes the bottle, and draws an impressively-sized swig from its mouth.

"It gets easier," she says, shrugging a little, as she hands the bottle back to him.

"You think?" he asks, glancing at her.

She nods. "Yeah."

He lifts the bottle in her direction slightly – a toast, of sorts – before he takes his next sip, hoping she's right.

* * *

 _And that's all she wrote (she says twelve thousand words later). Thank you all for reading. Thank you to Addison-fan for the prompt. I liked writing this - I always thought the hotel room scene, in addition to being iconic and absolutely devastating, was so fascinating for what could have happened if Mark weren't there. I mean, if they were real people. Derek's apology wasn't exactly Pulitzer-prize-winning, but he was in his rather wooden way genuinely sad when they were talking. He had his sad eyes on when he first saw Addison, at the door. What would have happened? Would they have talked?_

 _Ugh. My babies. May you continue to torment me with your beautifully sad perfection for another twelve years._

 _Thoughts? More prompts? Reminders that I need to update some other stories today too? You know how to reach me. 1-800-REVIEW._


	31. Plain or Plaid?

**A/N:** Hola, script flippers! This is a little change of place and a slightly different format, too, to accommodate some flashbacking. But it's still a script flip. It's another look at the infamous Christmas episode of season 2 - Christmas being the high holiest Addek time of the year, as we all know. I have been throwing lots of angst at you guys and, let's face it, everyone loves some good painful Addek angst.

But sometimes you need the sweet stuff too.

I've already written two separate script flip chapters of this episode, plus an entire (enormous) story dedicated to the aftermath of the iconic bar scene. This is a little different. This one flips the script a bit earlier, and has a very simple premise for that premise: what if Derek got a phone call, and that changed up the rest of that day's sequence?

To set the scene, I want to point out that I have spent _years_ assuming that episode 2.12 took place on Christmas Day. I guess it was all the, "it's Christmas!" stuff, plus the bells and music and everything, but Addison wouldn't be Christmas shopping on Christmas Day - right? So this flip takes that perspective - the episode takes place _during_ the Christmas season, of course - nine days before Christmas, in fact.

I hope you enjoy this chapter!

* * *

 **Plain or Plaid?  
** _(Episode 2.12, "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer")_

* * *

"Kathleen." Derek sighs into the phone, glancing at his watch. He's a little unnerved to get a call from his sister out of the blue. "You're all right? And Mom?"

"We're fine, Derek, don't worry."

And then he's a little annoyed.

Between Addison's nagging him about Christmas – which is still more than a week away – and his concerns about his patient, time is in short supply overall.

As is his patience.

"Good," he says shortly. "In that case – "

"You sound upset," Kathleen says.

"I'm not upset, Kath," he says tightly. "This just isn't a good time. And don't psychoanalyze me," he adds.

He's getting enough of that already:

 _What is it, Derek? Are you mad, depressed, what?_

"I didn't call to psychoanalyze you, Derek, don't worry."

"That's a relief." He rubs an impatient hand through his hair. His wife usually handles the calls to and from his sisters, and as usual he has a hectic schedule and not much time for conversation. "Then, uh, it's nice to hear from you, Kath, but I have patients, so – "

"I just called to thank you, that's all."

"To thank me," he repeats dubiously. He takes a few steps back toward his office so he's not blocking traffic.

"To thank you," Kathleen repeats. "Trevor opened the present before school today and he was so excited."

Derek tries to figure out what she's talking about. Something about his nephew. But presents? He knows Addison was talking about Christmas shopping earlier today, that he disappointed her when he couldn't make it out for dinner. _Plain or plaid?_ she asked him even earlier that day, following him down the hall. Wanting things from him.

But he's not sure what his sister is referring to.

"The, uh, the present – "

"It was so thoughtful of you. I know you always remember, but I also know it's been … hectic for you, out there. All the Christmas chaos has started, of course, so Trevor was feeling a little down. Your present cheered him up."

His present. He still has no idea what she's talking about.

"He's almost old enough now," Kathleen is saying, sounding amused.

"Almost old enough?"

"To understand the name of the holiday, I mean."

He squeezes his eyes shut. December sixteenth. How could he have forgotten?

 _Braxton Hicks Day._

He remembers, just as Kathleen says the words.

* * *

 **..  
** _ **Nine Days Before Christmas – 1996 (New York City)  
**_ **..**

* * *

"Derek!" Addison jogs up to him in the hallway, her sneakers squeaking a little on the linoleum. Her face is flushed with urgency, matching her pink scrubs. "Kathleen's in labor," she reports breathlessly.

"But it's only the sixteenth," Derek points out. His sister, much to the family's amusement, is due on Christmas Day.

"You know a due date is an estimate, Derek."

"I do know that, but I also know you were looking forward to delivering a Christmas baby." He smiles at her. He loves his wife's enthusiasm: for her work, for him, for their shared family. "A Christmas baby hasn't been this closely anticipated since Joseph and Mary were turned away from the inn."

"Very funny." She makes a face at him. "Anyway, I'm going to monitor her. It's lucky I have a light afternoon."

He pulls her in for a kiss. "Good luck," he says. "You want me to stick around?"

"No," she says firmly, "you haven't had a night off all week. You can come when the baby's born."

"You're the boss," he teases, and she grins in response.

"Keep me posted, Addie, okay? But light on the gory details, please."

"You're a doctor," she reminds him.

"When my sister's on the table, I'm a brother."

"Fine," she says, glancing at her watch, "but only because I love you – ooh, I'd better go. Third babies can come really fast."

"I love you too," he says, "but, Addie – " his tone is one of mock severity now, "that wasn't 'light on the gory details.'"

She laughs and he pulls her in for one more kiss before she goes.

..

"Hey, sleeping beauty."

His eyes spring open. Addison is standing over the couch smiling down at him, still wearing her winter coat, her long hair lightly dusted with snow.

He blinks. He was asleep.

He was asleep?

The last thing he can remember is settling on the couch – it's a rare night off, and he had the apartment to himself, which meant the rare opportunity to put his stockinged feet on the coffee table. There's an open, full beer on the table next to his feet. But apparently his eighteen-hour shift caught up to him; he must have fallen asleep.

"Hey." He reaches for her hand, automatically warming it between his two when he feels how cold it is. "How's Kathleen? And the baby? You didn't call."

"Kathleen and the baby are both fine, and I didn't call because it was a false alarm."

"A false alarm?"

"Braxton Hicks," she says, making a face. "Not real labor." She takes back her hand so she can slip off her coat, hanging on a hook by the door. She joins him on the couch, pulling her feet up under her. "Kathy was pretty disappointed. She's definitely ready to evict the little guy."

"Little." Derek raises his eyebrows. "Didn't you tell me he was measuring over eight last time you checked?"

Kathleen always has big babies, and this is her third. Her husband likes to tease her that she should have talked to his mother before she married him if she didn't want big babies.

"True. But size is relative."

"I love to hear a girl say that."

She loses a brief battle not to laugh. "Derek … you know what this means," she says.

"Mike's in for a rough evening?"

Addison smiles at that; Kathleen's husband is by most measurements a great guy, other than the measurement of what Kathy refers to as his "giant football head." She and Mike are as solid a couple as Derek knows; the only times he's ever seen them argue are during the last few weeks of each of his sister's pregnancies.

"Well, that too," Addison says. "But it means that we might get our Christmas baby."

"We," he repeats, lifting an eyebrow.

Her cheeks, already a little pink from the cold, get pinker. "You know what I mean."

"I do." He pulls her close for a minute, rubbing the back of her soft sweater. "Tired?" he asks as she rests her head against him.

"I'm a resident. I'm always tired." She leans back and smiles at him. "But I'm still excited to deliver a Christmas baby. What's better than a Christmas baby?"

He toys with the hem of her sweater. "As long as you're off for the rest of the night, I can think of a few things … ."

She just grins at him in response, and they make good use of the rest of their time off.

..  
..

* * *

"Derek?"

"I'm here, Kath, sorry."

"It's okay. I know you're busy."

"I am. But, uh, I have a minute," Derek admits. He's still waiting for Stevens to update him with the news scans.

"Oh." Kathleen sounds surprised, and he can't help but feel a little guilty. "Well, Trevor was hoping to catch you both together," Kathleen says, "so I thought I'd call myself first, since you know nine-year-old boys aren't known for their articulate phone calls, appreciative or otherwise."

Derek, who's heard many a niece and nephews adorable – if incomprehensible – _thank you_ calls over the years, can't exactly argue with that.

"It might have to be tomorrow," he admits. It's already three hours later in New York. At this point, he doubts he's going to see Addison before Trevor's bedtime.

"That's fine. We'll try you in the morning," his sister promises. "In the meantime, you'll thank Addie for me too?"

"Sure."

This was clearly all Addison's doing, the present – he still has no idea what she sent.

 _They._ She would have signed it from both of them; she always did.

"Derek," Kathleen begins, "how are things going with the two of – "

"No psychoanalyzing," he interrupts, "isn't that what you promised?"

"Maybe." She sounds like she's trying not to smile. "Fine, no psychoanalyzing, Derek, it's just – it's Christmas."

"Yeah. I know it's Christmas."

* * *

 **..**  
 _ **Christmas – 1996 (New York City)**_ **  
..**

* * *

"It's a boy!" Addison reports, beaming. "Nine pounds, six ounces. Healthy and perfect."

"Great news." He kisses her, shifting his sleeping niece a little to make sure she doesn't get crushed in the process. His wife is wearing clean pink scrubs and looks extremely happy – but also very tired. A quick check of his watch reminds him how long she's been awake. "How are you holding up?" he asks.

"I'm a little tired," she admits, "but Kathleen's the one who actually had the baby."

"But you're the one who's _actually_ my wife." He smiles at her. "How's Kath?"

"… sore," Addison says ruefully, "but she was a champ. As always."

"How many times did she threaten to divorce Mike for this one?"

Addison purses her lips like she's calculating. "Wait, are we counting the times she threatened to murder him? Because both of those things would end their marriage."

He grins. "As long as everyone's okay now."

"Okay, cleaned up, and Kathy's even forgiven Mike now that the baby's here." Addison smiles at him, then indicates the sleeping bundle in his arms. "How's Abby?"

"Passed out." Derek shifts the little girl slightly; she doesn't wake up but she does cling a bit tighter in response, and he feels his heart swell a bit. At two and a half, their niece Abigail can be a terror, but also an angel, and in slumber she's definitely the latter.

"Mom has Lauren?"

Derek nods. "She took her for a snack. Santa – well, the Santa from Peds – stopped by the waiting room about an hour ago, but I think he was a little caught off guard when Lauren asked him for a beanie baby instead of a baby brother or sister."

She laughs, and then, as if summoned, Derek's mother and their niece round the corner.

"Aunt Addie!" Lauren, four and full of energy, bounds over, beaming. "Did you bring my beanie baby?"

"Aunt Addie only delivers regular babies," Derek tells their niece, amused. "But I'm sure Santa's bringing you a beanie baby."

Santa's bringing her several, based on Addison's precise Christmas shopping, which he's used to by now but still impresses him.

"When's he coming?" Lauren looks up at him, her long dark hair hanging down her back. "It's Christmas today," she reminds Derek, "but my chimney's all the way at home! When are we going home?"

Derek and his mother exchange a look. "You're going to go meet the new baby first," his mother tells Lauren gently, "and see your mom and dad, and then Grandma will take you home."

Lauren throws her arms around Addison's legs. "I want Aunt Addie to take me home," she whimpers.

Addison looks like she's not sure whether to feel flattered or guilty. Derek notices his mother is smiling, but her smile looks a little tight.

"I have to stay here for a while, sweetheart," Addison says, reaching down to stroke her niece's dark hair, "so I can help take care of your mom and the baby. But Uncle Derek and I will come by later."

Lauren tilts her head up. "Promise?"

"Promise," Addison says.

Lauren considers this, then smiles a little, a dimple showing in her cheek. "Okay," she says.

Addison smiles back. "You ready to go see the new baby?"

Lauren holds up her arms in response, and Addison lifts her up, balancing her on her hip. "Oof, you're getting so big, Laur."

"Yeah, I'm the biggest in the whole family," Lauren chatters, "Abby's the big baby now 'cause we have a little baby." She pauses. "Did Mommy get a boy baby or a girl baby?"

"What do you think?" Addison asks.

"A girl," Lauren says, "'cause Mommy said she's gonna get a hundred girls to pay back what she did to Grandma." She pauses, then turns a serious face to her grandmother. "What did she do to you, Grandma? Was it bad?"

"Your mommy didn't do anything bad," Derek's mother assures the little girl, looking like she's trying to hide a smile. "She was just being silly. Mommy and your aunts were all wonderful girls with a lot of … energy. Just like you."

Lauren looks pleased with this.

"What do you think, darling, would you rather have a brother, or a sister?" Derek's mother asks now.

Lauren scrunches up her face. "A beanie baby," she says, "that's what I most rather, and then a kitten or a turtle or two bunny rabbits."

Derek's mother looks at him, amused. "You did ask," he tells her with a smile.

"That's true." Carolyn strokes her granddaughter's cheek, then turns to Addison. "Addie … thank you for bringing me another grandchild," she says.

Addison looks surprised, and pleased, her cheeks flushing pink. "It was my pleasure."

"No, Grandma." Lauren shakes her head. "My _other_ Grandma said God's the one who brings babies."

"You hear that, Aunt Addie?" Derek murmurs next to her ear. "Lauren's only four and she already knows surgeons have God complexes."

Addison gives him a light shove, looking like she's having trouble hiding her smile..

"You're right, darling." Carolyn smiles at Lauren, and all the assembled Shepherds. Abigail takes this cue to wake up, rubbing tired eyes and then turning a worried face to Derek.

"Daddy," she whimpers.

"We're going to go see Daddy right now," Derek assures her, patting her little back. "What do you think? Everyone ready?"

"I'll just go get Nancy," his mother says, "but you go on without me."

They do, walking down the hall together, Addison with Lauren on her hip and Derek cradling a sleepy Abigail. When he looks over at his wife, their niece is playing with the collar of her clean pink scrubs, and Addison is beaming down at her. He looks up and catches a passing nurse smiling at them. Derek realizes how they must look – yes, Addison is wearing scrubs, but her free hand is linked through her husband's arm, and each of them is cradling a tiny dark-haired girl.

He would never pressure Addison, not when he knows that having children at this stage in her career would be a sacrifice that could set her back years.

She just looks so beautiful holding their niece – he can't help telling her so when they pause outside Kathleen's room.

"Oh, Derek." She leans in and gives him a kiss – it's quick, but Lauren still wrinkles her nose.

"Yuck," she says.

"Good response," Derek teases, tapping his niece's little nose. "Okay, girls, you ready? Let's go see the Christmas miracle your Aunt Addie delivered."

..  
..

* * *

"I assume the two of you aren't coming home for Christmas," Kathleen says. Her voice isn't accusatory, and he makes an effort not to be defensive.

"No," he says. "It's not going to happen this year. I'm sorry."

"I understand." Kathleen pauses. "It won't be the same without you two, though."

* * *

 **..  
** _ **Christmas – 1998 (Bedford, New York)**_ **  
..**

* * *

"Aunt Addie!" Lauren, Kathleen's oldest, flings her arms around her aunt as soon as her father opens the door. Abigail is hot on her heels, grabbing Addison's hand and beaming up at her.

"And Uncle Derek," their father reminds the girls, smiling a little.

"It's okay, I know who the real attraction is." Derek laughs as his brother-in-law claps him on the back and then leans down to give Addison a kiss on the cheek.

"Okay, girls, let's let your aunt and uncle come inside." Mike is holding a dark-haired toddler with a slightly chocolate-smeared face. "Sorry, guys, it's a little chaotic here. We might have taken on too much hosting this year."

"It's tradition," Kathleen says firmly, rounding the corner with her newest baby in her arms. "And it's fine, honey, really." She smiles at Mike, then makes a face. "I think Trevor needs to be changed."

"Yuck!" Abby yells. "Trevor is yucky!"

The dark-haired toddler on Mike's hip doesn't seem to miss the meaning behind this, pouting.

"Abby, that's not nice," Kathleen scolds gently. "I want you to be nice to your brother. It's his birthday," she reminds her.

"No, it's baby Jesus's birthday," Abigail says firmly. "Grandma Kelly told me."

Kathleen looks like she's suppressing an eye roll at this mention of her mother-in-law. "Well, be that as it may, it's Trevor's birthday too."

"It's Christmas!" Abigail protests.

Kathleen sighs a little. "Why don't you take Aunt Addie inside and show her the tree?" she suggests to her daughter. "Here, honey," she adds, patting her husband's arm. "I'll change Trev if you can take the baby."

Just then, Sophie wakes up, as if on cue, and begins to cry.

"That's her hungry cry," Kathleen sighs. "The one thing Dad can't fix. Do you mind changing – "

But then the doorbell rings and Derek steps out of the way as Liz and her family start piling through the door – loud and cheerful, except for one crying niece.

"I'm so sorry, Samantha fell getting out of the car if you can believe it – it's okay, Sam, we'll get that fixed up. Uncle Mike has the good band-aids, right?"

"I don't know," Mike says, adopting a thoughtful tone, "I'm not sure if Sam likes the Powerpuff Girls."

"I do!" Samantha wipes tears from her eyes. "I want a Powerpuff Girls band-aid!"

Liz throws her brother-in-law a grateful look. "Let me just go – " he pauses, looking at the toddler in his arms.

"Something smells gross." Liz's daughter Madison wrinkles her nose.

"Maddy, where are your manners?" Liz shakes her head.

"She's blunt but she's right." Mike looks torn, glancing between his whimpering niece and his needing-to-be-changed son. "I can tell you where the medical – "

"Here," Derek says. "I'll change Trevor, and you can get Sam her Powerpuff band-aid."

Samantha gives him a watery smile in response.

"Are you sure?" Mike looks doubtful.

"Sure I'm sure. What are uncles for?" Derek holds out his arms and Trevor, perking up, goes willingly.

"Today's a big day for you, huh, buddy? It's not every day you turn two years old," Derek says, keeping up a steady stream of chatter as he brings his nephew to the nursery – which has now mostly been taken over with Sophie's newborn things. The third girl in the family, she's inherited an array of pink furniture and accessories.

Kathleen and Mike have done their best with Trevor's space, but it's definitely tight.

"Choo choo." Trevor wriggles out of Derek's arms and grabs his uncle's hand, leading him toward a chunky plastic train sitting near his small, crayon-shaped toddler bed. "Play?" he asks hopefully.

"Let's change you first."

Derek is pretty quick with diapers – a combination of medical school and three very fertile sisters – and in no time a clean, beaming Trevor is sitting on the floor with his train, soaking up his uncle's attention.

They spend a few enjoyable minutes crashing the train into the legs of Trevor's toddler bed, to much laughter from the little boy.

"Derek?"

He looks up to see his sister in the doorway.

"I'm sorry you got stuck with diaper duty," Kathleen says ruefully, shifting the baby under her nursing drape. "Also, Mom just got here. She has the stuff for … ." Kathleen raises her eyes, indicating the roof, clearly trying not to say Santa. All the Shepherd men participate in the annual reindeer-rooftop tradition. "Can you come?" she asks.

"Of course." Derek gets to his feet.

"No, play!" Trevor looks up at him sadly.

"Trev, Uncle Derek has to help Grandma now," Kathleen says. She holds out her hand. "Come with Mommy and we'll go find with your cousins."

"No. No!" Trevor grabs Derek's pant leg. "Choo choo," he insists. "Choo choo here."

"Sorry," Kathleen says to Derek once more. "It's been a hectic day."

Derek thinks, looking at his sister's rather tired face, that's it's probably more than just a hectic day.

"We have a cake for him," Kathleen says, sounding a little defensive and a little regretful all at once. "We were going to do it at breakfast, but the baby wouldn't settle, and then the girls were bickering, and – " she sighs. "We'll do it later, but now I guess it will just get wrapped up in all the Christmas stuff. Some birthday, huh?"

"Christmas is a … great birthday," Derek says heartily, figuring his nephew might be absorbing some of this.

"Derek." Kathleen lowers her voice. "It's an awful birthday. And it's just going to get worse once he figures it out."

She raises her voice back to its normal level. "Trevor." Kathleen holds her hand out again. "Come on, lovey, let's go."

His nephew's blue eyes fill with tears. He goes with his mother, but he cries for most of the walk back to the Christmas tree. Back in the living room, Trevor is subsumed in a pile of cousins – themselves subsumed in Christmas chatter – while Derek makes his way outside.

He can't help but think of the other birthdays in his sisters' families. They've carried on Carolyn Shepherd's tradition of low-cost but high-festivity celebrations, from a homemade cake, to what she used to call Birthday Rules, where the child with the birthday got to make all decisions that day – well, all non-crucial decisions. Derek has fond memories of getting to ride in the front seat as a boy, getting to be the one who licked the bowl clean after his mother baked the cake – come to think of it, a number of his memories are probably considered dangerous by late 90s standards, but he loved every one of them.

Just last month, the week before Thanksgiving, Derek and Addison came over for Abby's birthday. They played pin-the-tail-on-the-astronaut, a game the birthday girl requested, and ate popcorn and cake for dinner. The birthday girl even got the highest honor of all: getting to braid her aunt's long, red hair when the family ended the night in front of the VCR to watch a movie.

"Derek."

He looks up. His brother-in-law Randy is holding a large metal ladder. "You ready?" he asks.

"I don't know." Derek raises his eyebrows. "Is anyone going to get concussed this year?"

"I knew there was a reason I married a girl with a brain surgeon brother," Mike says, pleased.

"I wasn't even a medical student when you married my sister," Derek reminds him, amused.

"True. But you had potential." Mike claps him on the back. "Let's get the Santa party started, shall we?" He tips his head back, gauging the distance from the ground to the chimney. "Merry Christmas to all of us," he says, "and good luck too."

..  
..

* * *

"Are you hosting Christmas?" Derek asks now, balancing the phone against his shoulder for a moment to check his pager. Mr. Epstein's scans still aren't back yet, apparently.

"No, it's Nancy's year. So you're missing her running Randy and the kids ragged making everything _perfect, perfect, perfect._ You know, perfectionism can actually be – "

"No psychoanalysis, Kath," Derek reminds her.

"I only promised not to psychoanalyze _you_ ," Kathleen says, a smile in her voice, "and only because I'm grateful. I haven't seen Trevor this happy in weeks. Plus, he's set to be the only nine-year-old in health class next semester who knows what Braxton Hicks means."

Derek finds himself smiling. "Braxton Hicks Day," he says slowly.

"The could-have-been-birth day." Kathleen sounds like she's smiling too. "It would have been convenient if he'd been born then," she adds ruefully.

"If he'd been born, then it wouldn't be Braxton Hicks Day."

"True."

* * *

 **..**  
 _ **Nine Days Before Christmas – 2002**_ _ **(Bedford, New York)**_ **  
..**

* * *

"Uncle Derek!" Trevor's eyes are wide under the brim of his wool winter hat as he throws his arms around his uncle's waist. "I didn't know you were picking me up today!" Visible air puffs out of his mouth as he speaks; it's cold today.

Then Trevor's smile drops. "Does my mom know?" he asks, very seriously.

"That's a great question, Trevor," his teacher says from a few steps away, smiling knowingly at Derek and then turning back to the little boy. "Your mom does know, and she cleared it with us. She wanted you to be surprised."

Trevor sighs with relief, then looks up at his uncle. "How come you're here?" he asks.

"Trev – did you forget what day it is?"

Trevor thinks about it. "It's December sixteenth." Suddenly, his eyes widen. "That's a real thing?"

"It sure is, buddy, remember what Aunt Addie said? This is your could-have-been-birth day."

Trevor beams. "My … Braxton Hicks Day." He pronounces the words he learned from Addison with a little difficulty, but altogether not bad. Maybe he's a future OB. "When I _could've_ been born, but I wasn't."

"That's right."

"I wish I had been born today," Trevor says fervently, "'cause it would be way better than Christmas."

"Well. Speaking of way better than Christmas," Derek holds out his gloved hand and his nephew puts his mittened one inside it, as they start to walk to his car, "There's some hot chocolate with your name on it waiting for you at Glover's … and another surprise too."

"Wow!" Trevor beams, then fidgets a little. "What about the others?" he asks.

"We saw them around their birthdays too," Derek says. "Today is your day."

Trevor's smile is so big he can barely contain it. But when they get to Glover's to find a special table waiting for them and his aunt Addie waiting too – it somehow gets even bigger.

"I love Braxton Hicks Day!" Trevor says happily as he floats marshmallows in his oversized mug of hot chocolate, and Derek and Addison exchange an amused look at the glance they receive from a passing customer. He revels in the fixed attention of his aunt and uncle, drawing together with crayons and opening his present with delight.

Later, as Derek and Addison drive together back to the city – it's late, and this was an indulgence, but a tradition they couldn't pass up – his wife rests her hand on his leg. "Trevor was really happy today," she says. "Don't you think?"

"He was." Derek navigates carefully around an oversized truck. Maybe he should have taken the Merritt.

"He's such a sweetheart." Addison sighs a little. "He really just blossoms when you get him alone and you can actually hear him talking." She pauses. "Is that what it was like for you, honey? One boy, with all those sisters?"

"More or less," Derek says, "but at least I managed to avoid a Christmas birthday."

"Which is good for me," she replies, "because you love Christmas."

"I do love Christmas." He frees a hand to pat her leg, briefly.

"I know you do. I do too." She pauses. "Imagine not liking Christmas," she sighs.

"Well, he likes Braxton Hicks Day," Derek reminds her. "In fact, he loves it."

Addison laughs a little. "I hope he doesn't call it that to the wrong person."

"The wrong person – like an obstetrician? Or a laboring mother?"

They drive for a little while in silence. "I love seeing you with him," Addison says when they're a few exits from the bridge, so quietly he almost doesn't hear her.

There's a note of sadness in her voice; with the hand not holding the wheel, he reaches for hers. She squeezes his hand with hers, and then releases it, indicating the road.

Her eyes are a little sad when they get home, but he doesn't have time to ask her about it – he's paged back to the hospital for an emergency.

..  
..

* * *

"Braxton Hicks Day." Kathleen sounds both amused and appreciative. "A special day for a Christmas baby who doesn't get enough attention on his real birthday. It really was a brilliant idea."

"It was Addie's idea," Derek says.

"Well, Addie's the one who had to deal with the Braxton Hicks. And, of course, she's brilliant," Kathleen says lightly. "But I guess you already knew that."

"Yeah. I did." He looks at his watch.

"We'll miss you this year, Derek," Kathleen says before he can think of an excuse to get off the phone. "We missed you last year, too."

"I was working." He knows he sounds defensive. "And I tried to come, later that night. It wasn't my fault it snowed."

"I know, Derek. We were hoping you'd make it. Well." Kathleen pauses. "We all figured you were a lost cause once Mom served the turkey, but Addie never gave up. She was checking the weather report and her blackberry all night."

* * *

 **..  
** _ **The Day After Christmas – 2004  
**_ **..**

* * *

"… Happy Boxing Day," Derek says ruefully when Amy opens the door. His younger sister's eyes widen at the sight of him.

"Is that a thing?" she asks, pursing her lips.

"I hope so." Derek pauses, peering around the corner. "How much trouble am I in … roughly speaking?"

Amy considers the question. "Well, Trevor pushed Sophie off his new scooter last night, so I guess I would say you're only the second-naughtiest Shepherd kid in the house."

"I'll take it." He sighs a little, removing his winter garments. "Where is everyone?"

"The kids are in the den watching a movie," Amy recites, "Mike and the guys are building the things Santa didn't finish last night, Kathy's making a – "

"What about Addison?" he interrupts, well aware that the list of what the Shepherds are doing could go on for quite a while.

"Addison's right here."

He looks up, surprised, at his wife's voice. She's standing a few feet away – she must have just walked over. She's dressed casually in a soft sweater and jeans, her long hair loose.

"I'll just – I think I hear Mom calling," Amy says quickly, and leaves husband and wife alone.

Derek takes a deep breath, preparing himself.

"Happy Boxing Day," he tells her, crossing the distance between them.

"I ... don't think that's a thing," Addison says, sounding a little puzzled.

"Ah." He leans in and gives her a kiss on the cheek. "Can we make it a thing?"

She purses her lips when he draws back. "We missed you yesterday, Derek."

"I missed you too," he says automatically. "The weather was – it was too dangerous to drive up last night, Addie."

"Mark made it. He came after dinner, from his parents' place."

"Mark drives like a Bostonian," Derek says, "and that's not a compliment. Addison." He rests his hands on his wife's tense shoulders. "The roads out of the city were a mess last night. Even the trains were backed up. I'm sorry," he repeats, "okay? Can we just enjoy the day?"

"Enjoy the day ... as in Boxing Day?" she asks, lifting an eyebrow.

"That's the one." He smiles a little at her expression and then kisses her again, on the mouth this time. Puzzled, he draws back, licking his lips, trying to place the unexpected taste.

"It's cherry coke," Addison says, sounding a little embarrassed.

"Cherry coke." He frowns. "Cherry coke lipstick, really?"

"Yeah. Well, lip gloss. It's Lauren's." Addison's cheeks turn pinker. "She did my makeup, actually."

"She did?"

He moves her face gently into the light with one hand. Now that he looks closely, he can see the rather enthusiastic swipes of eyeshadow bringing attention to the color of her eyes.

"Well? What do you think?" Addison asks.

"I think it's a good idea she's planning to be a gymnast," Derek says, "because she probably doesn't have a future in cosmetology."

"Mean." Addison smiles at him. "And anyway, Lauren quit gymnastics last year. You know that, honey. She's all about tennis now. Kathy's going nuts trying to keep up with that and Abby's ballet schedule."

This is all news to him, or at least it sounds like news. He just nods. Addison is skilled at keeping up with their family, and he reaps the benefits. And he appreciates it; Addison knows that.

"I'm sorry." He reaches out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I may have rushed to judgment. Let me taste the cherry coke again – maybe I'll like it this time."

She pretends to fend him off, laughing a little, and they exchange a few kisses before she draws back, looking serious.

"Derek – "

Oh, here she goes. He was just starting to think he would get off without a lecture.

" – I'm not nagging," she says defensively, interpreting his face before he can speak. "I'm just saying, I know the weather was bad, but when we talked on Christmas Eve – " She stops, apparently gathering her words. "You didn't have to stay for that surgery."

"Tell that to the family of the woman who's going to make it to the new year." His tone is sharper than he intended, and Addison looks hurt.

Just for a minute, then she draws up a little taller. "You're not the only neurosurgeon in the city, Derek, or even in the department. Someone else could have done it."

"That's a new version of the oath." He shakes his head. "'First, abdicate your responsibilities,' is that it?"

"You have responsibilities beyond your patients, Derek."

He massages his temples. "Addison … ."

"What about your responsibilities to your family?" she asks quietly.

"Addison, don't do this now."

"When am I supposed to do it, then?"

"When we're not standing in my sister's hallway on … Boxing Day," he says, wondering if the term will make her smile, but it doesn't. "When it's not the day after Christmas," he amends, "with my whole family waiting for us."

"Our," she says.

He's confused. "What are you talking about?"

"Our family. You said 'my.'"

"Oh. Well, it was just a ... slip of the tongue. You know what I meant."

"Yeah, I guess I do." She looks down at her hands, then looks up at him with tears in her eyes. "Maybe it's better we don't have our own family."

"Addison." He shakes his head. "What are you talking about?"

"You have to … show up, when you have kids. You have to be there."

He tries to take in what she's saying. But he can't, not really. All he knows is that this isn't the time.

"Addison." He takes her face between his palms, making it impossible for her not to look at him. "I'm sorry I couldn't get here last night. But I _am_ here now. And if you're willing to stop nagging me, we can still have a nice holiday."

She tenses at the word 'nagging.' He watches as she presses her lips – her cherry-coke flavored lips – together. There could be no clearer message: she's closed for business.

He sighs and releases her, trying to figure out if it's worth trying to salvage the rest of the day. Addison's like a dog with a bone lately, acting like he's somehow falling down on the job because he's … at his job. It's a balancing act. A give and take. It's like that for everyone, isn't it? Even people with kids?

"I'm not the only one who missed you, Derek," Addison says quietly. "You already missed Braxton Hicks Day this year."

" _Addison_." He massages the tight muscles at his neck. It was a long, slippery drive, not that she asked. "That's not an actual holiday. And you went," he adds at her expression, feeling a little bad. It's certainly not Trevor's fault his aunt is in a bitchy mood, "so why does it matter?"

She raises her eyebrows. "Why does it matter?" she repeats. "Derek, do you even – "

But she doesn't finish her sentence.

"If it isn't the god of neurosurgery!" Mark's booming voice cuts in. "You finally got here, huh?"

"I finally did," Derek says, grimacing. "Merry Christmas, Mark."

"Well. Now it is." Mark raises an eyebrow. "Some of us were moping last night." He slings a friendly arm around Addison's shoulders. "Pacing around, checking the weather – you have a very devoted wife, Derek."

Addison looks a little embarrassed. "Mark … ."

Derek finds himself annoyed all over again. Now they're going to team up against him? Mark is a member of this family in his own right, with his own tradition of coming to the Shepherds' after his annual duty-visit to his own parents. And Mark is a busy, ambitious surgeon too. He should understand.

Mark looks like he's about to say something. He shoves his hands in his pocket. "I did the … roof stuff," he says. "I got here early so there would be enough of us to do it."

More guilt. Just what he needs. Derek sighs. "I'm sure the guys could have done it alone."

"You need four people," Addison pipes in.

"Thank you, Addison, I'm aware," he snaps before he can stop himself, and he sees her flinch at his tone.

So much for salvaging the day.

"Look, why don't you just let me – settle in." He's still standing in the foyer, his bag next to his feet. "It's been a long trip."

Addison looks a little guilty at that. "Do you want some coffee?" she asks. "The pot is gone, but I can put up another."

"Sure," he says. "That would be nice."

He doesn't particularly want coffee, but he's aware Addison needs a task to distract her. And if she's distracted … the better for her annoyance at his late arrival.

She turns and heads for the kitchen. Mark follows her, then turns back. "She's right, you know."

"Excuse me?" Derek looks up.

"Addison. She's right about the roof. You do need four guys."

Derek suppresses an eye roll. "Then I guess we're all lucky that you were here to take my place," he tells Mark.

With that, he sets his bag by the wall and heads for the bathroom to freshen up. The truth is, he's not sure where to go. If he goes to the den, his nieces and nephews will clamor over his arrival – he loves them, but that will just attract attention and he'll have to deal with his sisters and Addison. The kitchen – well, he's not going there. Let Mark talk Addison down from her bad mood today.

He remembers something Amy said; on a hunch he walks down the hall, stopping outside a door with a chalkboard sign hanging from a hook. BOYS ONLY, it says, and Derek has to suppress a smile. Lightly, he knocks.

After a moment, his nephew Trevor opens the door. He's growing so much – it's only been a month since Thanksgiving, and he already looks taller. His hair is a little mussed like he's been lying down, his face flushed.

"Uncle Derek!" He looks surprised. "I didn't know you were here."

"I just got here."

"Oh." Trevor looks down at his feet. "The other kids are in the den," he says, sounding a little sad. He looks up. "I'm in trouble," he admits.

"Yeah? So am I," Derek says.

Trevor's mouth quirks a little. "But you're a grownup."

"Grownups get in trouble too," Derek tells his nephew.

"Oh," Trevor says again. "Did you say you were sorry yet?"

Derek nods.

"I did too. But I'm still in trouble." Trevor sits down on the side of his bed, looking glum. "I didn't even mean to hurt her," he continues. "It's my scooter and I just wanted to ride it first. Sophie has her own presents. A lot of presents. But she always wants my stuff and she wouldn't give it back."

"That's hard." Derek sits down next to his nephew. "I have a little sister too, you know."

"Aunt Amy," Trevor says.

"That's right. She used to want to take my things too. Especially on Christmas, when we had new things."

Trevor looks conflicted. "I know it was Christmas," he says, "but it was my birthday too."

Ah. Derek isn't really surprised.

"I know that's rough, buddy. Hey," he says, waiting for Trevor to look at him, "I heard you and Aunt Addie had lots of fun on Braxton Hicks Day, though."

Trevor smiles at this. "I got to leave school for lunch and everything! It was _really_ fun."

"I wish I could have been there." Derek ruffles his nephew's hair. "Next year."

"My present was really good too," Trevor adds, looking up at him. "I wish Braxton Hicks Day could be my real birthday. My real birthday was no fun at all. And today stinks," he adds. "I have to stay in my room."

Derek looks around. Trevor's room is undeniably tiny – it was originally a butler's pantry, but when Kathleen's family expanded to five children, four of whom were girls, they had to make do. Trevor has his own room with no sisters, but it's just about big enough for his bed, a tiny desk, narrow bookshelves, and a toy chest. Yankee paraphernalia covers the walls.

Trevor's lower lip trembles.

"Hey. The day's not over yet," Derek reminds him.

"But Mom and Dad took my scooter," Trevor reports with tears in his eyes. "And I don't get to play with it. It's not fair!"

Derek is well acquainted with toy jail from growing up under his parents' rules. Anything the Shepherd kids fought over was immediately locked away. He can't deny it was effective, in hindsight, but he also remembers that it wasn't very pleasant at the time.

"You'll get the scooter back, Trev."

"Not for ages." Trevor leans against him, his voice sad. "I wish I had a brother instead."

"A little brother would still take your toys," Derek says. "Just ask your cousin Maddy – she has two of them."

He shrugs, then looks up at his uncle. "How come _you're_ in trouble?" he asks. "Is Grandma mad at you?"

Probably – but he doesn't say that. He shakes his head. "No," he says. "Aunt Addie's just a little mad that I was late getting here," he admits.

"Oh." Trevor considers this. "Is she gonna take something away from you?"

His question is so simple, so innocent, that it makes Derek pause for a minute. For some reason, he feels a twinge of sadness.

"No, buddy, she just needs a little space."

And so does he, but framing it that way makes him feel better.

Trevor nods. "It's boring in here," he says, then looks up at Derek, a little worried. "But I'm not sure I'm s'posed to have company."

Derek ruffles his hair. "I came in here by myself," he says. "And I'll tell your parents that if they're concerned, okay?"

Trevor smiles a little bit at this.

Derek sticks around – at first he's buying time to let Addie cool off, then he's exchanging baseball trivia with his nephew, and then there's a knock on the door.

Trevor freezes.

"Trev, are you – Derek?" Mike stops in the middle of the sentence, looking surprised. "When did you get here?"

"A little while ago," Derek says. "I, uh, I just stopped in to see Trevor before I joined the rest of you. I hope that's all right," he adds.

"Of course it's all right." Mike props his hands on his hips, looking at his son. "How about you, bud? Did you get some thinking time?"

Trevor nods solemnly.

"Are you going to try to get along with your sister?"

Trevor nods again.

Mike studies his face. "Shake on it?" he proposes.

Father and son solemnly shake hands.

"Okay … then you're paroled."

"I am?" Trevor asks eagerly, then pauses. "What does that mean?"

Mike laughs, ruffling his son's hair. "It means you can go watch the movie in the den with your sisters and cousins," he says, "as long as you behave yourself. You think you can do that?"

Trevor nods vigorously this time. He pauses at the door and turns around. "Thanks for hanging out with me, Uncle Derek."

Derek is touched. "My pleasure," he says, "and … happy birthday, kiddo."

He's rewarded with a big smile.

..  
..

* * *

"I'm sorry I can't be there this year," Derek says, knowing it sounds a little wooden.

Kathleen sighs. "I know there's a lot going on, Derek."

Then again, there always is, at Christmas.

Which is pretty much how Braxton Hicks Day came about.

* * *

 **..  
** _ **Christmas – 2001**_ _ **(Eastbridge, Connecticut)**_ **  
..**

* * *

"Merry Christmas!" Derek and Addison are met with a cacophony of nieces and nephews in Nancy's foyer. His sister is bustling around, stopping for quick hello kisses and then giving brisk orders to adults and children alike to prepare for this afternoon's meal.

It's a typical gathering, the nieces all over Addie as soon as she takes off her coat, wanting to show her school papers and photographs, to play with her long hair and get her to style theirs … and just to talk.

He smiles at this; he's exhausted, but he's always enjoyed how much their nieces love his wife.

With the girls occupied, he notices his nephew sitting by the tree, pushing a train back and forth.

"Hey, Trev." He squats down on the carpet. "Did you happen to turn five years old today?"

Trevor brightens. "Yeah!"

Derek widens his eyes to make clear how impressed he is. " _Five_ … that's a big kid age," he says.

Trevor looks flattered. "You want to play trains, Uncle Derek?"

"I would love to play trains."

But it's only a few minutes before he's summoned away for more chaotic Christmas preparations. "Later," he tells his nephew, "I promise."

"Don't make me feel guilty," Kathleen says, looking exhausted and a little hassled, when he joins her in the kitchen. He can hear Nancy giving drill-sergeant directions out in the living room.

"I didn't say anything." Dere frowns.

"I know, but I saw your face and I saw you with Trevor." She sighs. "I know it's hard for him having a Christmas birthday, and of course we want to celebrate it, but I can't not celebrate Christmas either. There's just so much going on." She jiggles the baby on her hip. "Sophie's giving new meaning to the terrible twos, Gracie's teething – " she drops a kiss on her youngest's head, adorned with a stretchy little bow, as if to apologize for complaining – "Lauren is nine going on thirteen and argues about everything, and Abby broke her arm two weeks ago and needs extra attention."

Derek just nods, listening.

Kathleen sighs. "I'm sorry, Derek. I really do appreciate that you care. Trevor loves you guys, and – he is kind of stuck in the middle here. But I'm trying."

"I know you are," Derek says hastily. "You and Mike are great parents," he adds.

It's true. He always thought he'd model his own parenting after bits and pieces of his sisters' – well, less rigid than Nancy, though.

"Thanks." Kathleen kisses him on the cheek. "Now, I need you to help me with the turkey. Lizzie threw her back out and you know Nancy has very specific rules … ."

His head is spinning by the time Addison joins him in the kitchen to help him with the turkey. Her hair is teased out – his nieces' work, no doubt.

"Nice hair."

" _Don't_ you start." But she kisses him, softening her words significantly. She looks at him. "What's wrong, honey?"

"Nothing. Just – Trevor." He gives her a shortened version of his time under the tree with his nephew.

Addison sighs in response. "He's such a good kid. Being born on Christmas … is tough."

"He doesn't get a real birthday," Derek agrees.

"And also Christmas is kind of … tainted." Addison looks thoughtful. "Wait," she says after a moment. "I might have an idea. Just ... give me a second to think."

He waits.

"Braxton Hicks," Addison announces after a moment.

"Braxton Hicks?" Derek is confused. "Do you need to go – call a patient, or …?"

"No, Derek," she laughs, "I mean – I think there might be a way for Trevor to have a birthday that _isn't_ Christmas."

"Addie, you're good – but even you can't change the day a kid was born."

She raises her eyebrows. "We'll see about that."

..  
..

* * *

"Trevor may still not be a fan of Christmas, but boy, was he happy today," Kathleen says. "The only kid in school who gets a bonus birthday – a Braxton Hicks day." She pauses. "One of the moms did call me about it last year, but when she heard the story she thought it was sweet."

Derek is amused. "I'm glad he liked the present."

"He's disappointed he won't see you in person – Addie's made it up here every Braxton-Hicks Day, but I know it's not easy, and of course the kids know you're living across the country now."

Derek has a little curl of guilt. It's easier not to think about his New York family when he doesn't talk to them.

"Tickets to that baseball clinic in Cooperstown that he's been dying to go to," Kathleen says, smoothly, maybe realizing Derek has no idea what the gift is but too tactful to say anything. "For Trev and Mike. We wanted to arrange it, but it's hard with – everything."

 _Everything._ The expense of raising five children is … a lot. Derek knows this. Kathleen makes good money but Mike's business is less reliable, depending on the year, and with child care, school expenses … .

"It's very generous," Kathleen says.

"It's, uh, it's our pleasure." Derek knows that's what Addison would say, and it's not like she'll miss the money. Addison loves splashing out on gifts, enjoying giving at least as much as the receiver does. And she loves Braxton Hicks Day – the holiday she invented.

 _Braxton Hicks Day._

God, he hasn't thought about that in a while.

"Listen, Kath, I should – "

"Wait."

He sighs. "What is it?"

"I just want to say something."

He braces himself.

"Christmas makes you grateful," Kathleen says. "It makes you want to say _thank you_ , tell the people you love that you appreciate them."

"This is getting a little …"

"Girly?" Kathleen interrupts. "Don't you miss having all of us girls around?"

He would have said _no_ without hesitation, if someone else asked him. Yesterday. But he feels a little warm curl of nostalgia, hearing his sister's voice. "Maybe," he says, adopting her voice from yesterday.

"Well, we miss you. We all do. We were down at my mother-in-law's last weekend and we took the kids to church – _don't_ laugh, you know we sometimes go. Anyway, there was a new … church guy."

"Is that his canonical title?" Derek asks.

"Shut up. There was a new guy," Kathleen repeats firmly, "and he talked a lot about – about gratitude. He said that a lot of times people are grateful, and they don't know how put it into words, so they just don't. But they should. Because it's good to be grateful out loud."

"I'm sorry," Derek says, "I thought I was talking to my sister. My _opiate of the masses, church is a waste of time_ sister."

"It's Christmas." Kathleen sounds a little hurt. "But just – forget it."

"I'm sorry," Derek says the same words, but sincerely this time. "Go ahead. Tell me the rest of what the … _guy_ … said."

She inhales and he thinks she'll stop, because she's annoyed with him, but she continues. " _Start a gratitude conversation_ , that's what he calls it. _Gratitude makes everyone feel good._ He had this thing where he gave us a script. He said we can just – call someone up, write a letter, have a cup of coffee, and just tell them. _I'm grateful, I appreciate you, and thank you._ "

"I'm grateful, I appreciate you, and thank you," Derek repeats. "Isn't that a little – general?"

"It's a script, Derek," Kathleen says patiently, "those are prompts, and you fill it in. You're the one who has to make it personal."

"Oh."

"It was nice." Kathleen sounds a little defensive. "Look, Trev's the middle child and he's a Christmas baby, and his birthday always gets pushed aside, and honestly, it means a lot that you remember him every year. Even before you guys thought up Braxton Hicks Day." She draws a deep breath. "My point is … I'm _grateful_ that you care about him, I _appreciate_ that you make the effort to send a gift and make him feel special, and … thank you."

He's silent for a moment, touched by his sister's words. "I can't really take the credit," he admits. "It was Addison."

"Well, then I'm grateful you found Addison," Kathleen says softly. "I appreciate that you brought her into this family. So thank you for that."

He blinks. "You're welcome."

"Dr. Shepherd?" He looks up at the new voice. It's Stevens, jogging toward him holding a large folder.

"I have Mr. Epstein's CT scans," she says when he holds the phone away.

"Good." He turns back to the phone. "Kath, I need to go."

"Of course. Thanks again for the present and – Merry Christmas, Derek."

"Merry Christmas."

He hangs up the phone and turns to Stevens. "Let's take a look at those scans," he says.

..

 _I'm grateful, I appreciate you, and thank you_. Derek considers his sister's words as he washes his hands after the successful procedure, taking his time.

He notices the one other remaining figure in the room. She did an excellent job during the procedure, but he's fairly certain –

"Nurse McLaren," he says. "Aren't you supposed to have the day off?"

"I was, but Karen – Nurse Josephs – her father got sick out in Walla Walla. I took her shifts so she could go spend Christmas with him."

Her face looks serious, her eyes sad. She doesn't have to say, _this is going to be his last Christmas._

Derek's throat feels tight. "That was kind of you," he says.

Nurse McLaren blinks, looking a little surprised.

"I'm sure Nurse Josephs appreciates it," Derek clarifies.

McLaren waves a hand. "Karen would do anything for anyone," she says. "It's nice to be able to help her out a little."

She goes back to the sink.

Derek glances at the door, hoping no one can hear him. What's that his sister's … _guy_ said? _Start a gratitude conversation? Gratitude makes everyone feel good?_

"Nurse McLaren?"

She turns around. "Yes, Dr. Shepherd?"

Derek clears his throat. "I'm, uh, I'm grateful that you and all the other nurses have such a good support system," he says hesitantly. "I appreciate your … working together to help each other so that we can all help our patients. Thank you."

Now McLaren looks really surprised. "You're welcome," she says hesitantly. "That's, um, that's nice of you to say. The nursing staff spends a lot of time here, Dr. Shepherd. We're kind of … family. And Christmas makes you think really hard about family."

 _I guess maybe it does._

Hoping he won't be the subject of too much _Shepherd got all mushy and girly in the scrub room_ gossip, Derek gives McLaren a quick smile, finishes washing up, and makes his exit.

But as he walks back to the locker room, he feels – something. Something he can't identify.

Like his step is a little lighter.

..

It's late by the time he makes it to the bar.

"Merry Christmas, Joe."

"Merry Christmas." Joe is already pouring a drink. "Double scotch, single malt."

"You're a good man. Hey," Derek checks his watch. "Have you seen – "

Her very familiar voice interrupts his question.

"Hey, Dr. Shepherd."

He turns to see Addison beaming at him from a small table, and raises his own glass in a salute, acknowledging her with a matching: "Dr. Shepherd."

A memory curls around him like the drink that's warmed his tongue. The first time they ever toasted each other this way. Their wedding night, the first time they were both _Dr. Shepherd._ They held up matching champagne flutes. The next morning, everything still fresh and new, they toasted each other with steaming hot cups of coffee. There was a time when it never failed to make both of them smile. _Two Shepherds are better than one_ , he used to tease her.

Kathleen's unexpected call, her words about _gratitude_ – eleven years and he's not sure he ever thanked Addison for taking his last name. That very official way of telling the world that she was his, and he was hers.

He makes his way to the table where she's waiting for him.

"So? How's Dr. Epstein's frontal lobe?"

"He woke up smiling."

"Congratulations," she says.

"Thank you." He nods at the foamy-looking glass in front of her. "What are you drinking?"

"Hot buttered rum." She laughs a little over the sip, patting her mouth with a napkin. "It's delicious."

"It's Dickensian," he teases her, and smiles … then looks pensive.

"No. Well, yeah – it's Christmas," she says softly.

"And you've been Christmas shopping." He indicates the catalogue in front of her. "Did you decide on plain or plaid? For the blanket?"

She blinks. "I decided on both. One of each."

"Good." He takes a sip of his drink. "Two is better than one."

She smiles a little, hesitantly, but doesn't say anything.

"That's not the first gift you bought," he says lightly.

"No, well – it's already so late in the season."

 _Christmas, Derek. It's our season._

She's always loved Christmas shopping. It was something they did together. Now she's looking down at the catalogue, toying with one of the pages. He can't see her eyes.

"You, uh, you already sent Trevor a present," Derek prods. "A Braxton Hicks Day present."

Addison looks up now, her cheeks coloring a little. She seems surprised. "You know about that?"

"Kathleen called."

"Oh. Well, yeah, today is the sixteenth, and it's, you know … tradition." She says the last word quietly, then pauses. "Did you talk to Trevor?"

He shakes his head. "Kath said he wanted to wait to talk to us when we're together."

Addison looks down at the catalogue again. She doesn't say anything, but has a sense of what she's thinking: _when will that be?_

"She said he loved the present."

"I'm so glad." She turns one of the catalogue pages without looking up at him. "I hoped he would."

"You picked it out," he says, "you paid for it and you sent it and got it there today."

"Today is Braxton Hicks Day," she says, still not looking at him.

"I know. I just mean - you signed the card from both of us," he says. "Kathleen thinks it's from both of us.

She looks up, finally, her cheeks a little pinker. "Of course I signed it from both of us, Derek. We're married. It _is_ from both of us."

"That was – nice of you."

Now she seems a little surprised, but just smiles faintly before her eyes drop to her drink again. He recognizes the posture; she has more to say. He waits, and then she looks up again.

"You're not – you don't mind?" she asks him.

"No. Why would I mind?"

"Just – they're, you know, they're your family … ." Her voice trails off.

 _Your mother used to love me. I have a lot of ground to make up for._

He remembers Kathleen's words on the phone:

 _Well, then I'm grateful you found Addison. I appreciate that you brought her into this family._

He remembers her face after his slip of the tongue, last Christmas: _my family_ , that's what he said. Had he meant to hurt her, then, without realizing it? Or was he just not paying attention?

He looks at her. He's paying more attention now.

"They're your family too, Addison," he reminds her firmly.

She presses her lips together. "Thank you for saying that," she says softly. Her gaze is lowered again, focusing on her drink.

"I'm not just saying it, Addison." He leans forward. "Christmas … makes you think really hard about family," he says, echoing Nurse McLaren's words from the scrub room. "And I, uh, I wanted to say something to you."

Addison looks up at him once more. Her eyes are very wide, and very blue against the white of her sweater, but he doesn't have to look too closely to see how wary they are.

Guarded.

Like she expects his words to hurt her.

"Thank you," he says quietly.

Now her eyes are confused. "For … for what?"

"I'm … grateful that you moved here," Derek says, and sees the moment her eyes soften. "I appreciate your … willingness to try to make it work here in Seattle."

Her cheeks flush more deeply, and she takes a sip of her drink. "You're welcome," she says quietly after a moment. Her eyes are shining now. "Derek, you should know that I did – I did move here for you, but Richard– "

"I know he created a position for you." Derek studies her for a moment. "That doesn't mean – you still had to start over, moving here. You still had to leave your practice, and everything else in New York."

"Yeah, I guess I did." She looks almost relieved.

"So … thank you," he repeats.

"You're welcome." A smile is playing at the corners of her lips now. She looks almost - lighter.

For a moment, they're both quiet. He takes a small sip of his drink.

"Derek?"

"Yes, Addison?"

"Thank _you_ ," she says.

It's his turn to smile now. "For what?" he asks.

"I'm grateful that you took me back," she says softly. "I appreciate your … willingness to give me a second chance. So … thank you."

He hears the same words he used – what did Kathleen call them? Prompts? Prompts that you have to make more personal, yourself. He's not surprised – he and Addison have so often, for so long, been echoes of each other. _Hey, Dr. Shepherd. Dr. Shepherd._

"You're welcome," he says.

He notices her hand curling loosely on the table; he reaches for it automatically, and folds it into his.

"Cold," he observes.

"Well, it's winter," she reminds him.

"Inside too?"

"Everywhere." She smiles, and squeezes his hand lightly with her colder one. "'tis the season," she says.

"'Tis," he agrees, smiling back. "But what about the hot buttered rum?" He points to her drink. "It may be winter everywhere, but your drink is still hot."

She takes a sip in response, then makes a face. "Actually … it's less hot than it was."

"I'll get you another," he says, starting to stand up, familiar with Addison's requirements for very specific beverage temperatures. _Goldilocks_ , he used to tease her, _everything has to be just right._

"Wait – " She holds onto his hand, stopping him.

He looks at her. Her face is very soft against her white sweater.

"… Merry Christmas, Derek," she says.

He smiles. "Merry Christmas, Addison," he says, and goes to the bar to get her drink.

"Another hot buttered rum for the lady doctor?" Joe asks cheerfully as he leans against one of the stools.

"You called it, Joe."

"And another one for you too?"

"No, thanks. I'm driving tonight." Derek looks back at the small table.

"Good plan. Got to keep your wits about you."

Joe, as usual … is pretty wise.

And Addison is smiling when he gets back to the table.

"Great service in this place," she says, her eyes twinkling, indicating the drink.

He raises an eyebrow. "Don't forget to tip your server."

"I never do."

It's true. It was one of the first things he noticed about her. And that was just some hole in the wall pizza place, too one of their early dates. But Derek waited tables at the club to save up money college, and in college too. There are some things you notice, when you've done that. Addison was always a generous tipper. A generous gift-giver – at Christmas, on birthdays, even Braxton Hicks Day. Generous with her time and her affections.

"Good," he says now. "Then you can have your drink." He sets it down in front of her.

"Thanks."

He waits for her to take a sip – she purses her lips first, like a kiss, to blow gentle air across the surface of the steaming drink.

It's always a bit of a production, Addison's first tastes of something new.

Then she pauses, waits a moment, and blows lightly again.

She presses her lips to the rim of the glass and lets the foamy liquid touch her mouth – just briefly.

And then, finally, she takes a sip. Her eyes widen a little, and then she swallows it, patting her mouth with her napkin.

"Well? How was it?" Derek asks.

She looks down at the drink, and then back up at him. "Just right," she says.

"Not too cold?"

"Not too cold."

"And not too hot?" he asks.

"Not that either."

"It's a Christmas miracle," he teases her.

She laughs a little, wipes her mouth, and then sets down the cup.

Almost shyly, she extends her hand across the table again, enfolding it with his. He rubs his thumb across her warm skin, listening to the tinny Christmas carol on the radio and smelling the sweet butterscotch scent of her drink.

"How is it?" she asks.

"Hm?" he turns to her, a little confused. Does she mean his drink?

But she looks down, indicating her hand. "Is it still cold?" she asks, squeezing his fingers lightly.

He pauses for a moment, looking at her.

"Not anymore," he says. "It's just right."

* * *

 _ **And that's all she wrote. See, I can be warm and fuzzy! Actually, this flip popped into my head and demanded to be written based on a throwaway couple of lines in a much angstier story. When the Addek inspiration hits - you have to roll with it. I'd love to know what you thought of this flip, so I hope you'll review and tell me.**_

 _ **Finally, to take a page from Kathleen's "guy" - I'm grateful to everyone who reads my writing, I appreciate the time and thought it takes to review, so thank you! Merry Addekmas to all!**_


	32. Until There's a Problem to Solve

Hello! Happy Sunday of that bizarre week between Christmas and New Year's when no one really knows which way is up. I have a bunch of other WIP updates in the works (including Take Your Life and Light It Up, which is next if there's any crossover readership ... those readers have been waiting so kindly and generously). And I wasn't planning to post anything this weekend, because I have a ton of work and self-discipline and whatnot. Anyway, this is the fault of **kathleenx** , who left this prompt in her review: "what if Addison was the one who took care of Miranda's baby instead of Yang and Derek saw her and the rest follows..."

Okay, well, I'm only human, so of course I couldn't resist. Just like Addison couldn't resist both Bailey's son _and_ sticking it to Richard. I almost forgot how much I loved that. Richard is all judgey, like, "you brought your baby to work?" and when he pushes Bailey on the idea that she won't be able to operate - she has nothing scheduled - she has her great line, "Okay, I can't solve a problem until there's a problem to solve. Are you saying there's a problem?" And _then_ Addison, who by now is holding baby Tuck because of course she is, also turns on Webber: "Yeah, is there a problem, Richard?" _Get him, ladies._ Love it. Obviously that interaction inspired the title of the story.

This is my **fourth** (!) flip of 2.20, but it's a major Addek episode what with the infamous Catherine Deneuve patient-creeper and Derek's patient's husband who stopped seeing his wife, Derek's sort of-apology at the end and multiple scenes of the misguided "friendship" Derek was pushing on Meredith at the time. Obviously, this one is focused on the baby, but it made me think of some other things happening around the timeline in the story that just seemed to fit. I hope you'll agree. Note that several bits of dialogue come from the episode itself - you may recognize them.

 **kathleenx** , thank you for the prompt. Everyone else who's left requests, thank you too! I keep them all in mind and wait for procrastination/inspiration to strike. So keep it up, please. :) And I hope you enjoy this flip.

So here we are in 2.20. Bailey arrived with Tuck just like in the real episode. Except instead of Cristina watching him so Bailey can work - reluctantly - someone else does. It could have gone like this, maybe ...

* * *

 **(I Can't Solve a Problem) Until There's a Problem to Solve  
** _(2.20, "Bandaid Covers the Bullet Hole")_

* * *

"You're talking about being mad at your friends for being mad at you," Derek points out.

"I hate them," Meredith insists. "I do."

And yet … she still won't tell him why her friends are mad at her. Wouldn't tell him on their walk with Doc and won't tell him now. Even though _they_ are friends.

They're friends.

Derek leans in close to ask the question quietly, hoping to catch her off guard: "What the hell did you do?"

She chuckles. "I'm not telling you."

"You know, as a friend … you suck," he teases, and then straightens up when he notices something unexpected from his vantage point on the catwalk.

Some _one._

Well. Two someones, actually.

Across the way, outside of the elevators: Addison is standing, smiling widely enough that he can actually see it from here, a small bundle in her arms. He doesn't have to see the bundle to know what it is … his wife's posture is a dead giveaway, even outlined in severe silhouette on ridiculously high heels.

She's practically glowing.

"What is it?" Meredith asks.

"Addison. She, uh, she has a baby."

Meredith's eyes widen. "Addison has a baby?"

"Yes. No," Derek says quickly, realizing what she must think. "I mean, she's … holding a baby. There," and he points.

Meredith follows his gaze. "Bailey's baby," she says.

"Right."

They both watch for just a second. Addison seems utterly lost in the baby she's holding, mesmerized even. He sees rather than hears her laughing delightedly, head tipped back a little, with sheer joy.

"I didn't realize she was such a baby person," Meredith says.

"She's a neonatologist," Derek reminds her lightly.

"Right. But that, well, that's work … ." her voice trails off. She's quiet for a moment, while he watches his wife.

"Does Addison know we're friends?" Meredith asks, startling him out of his reverie.

Derek swallows. The sandwich they were sharing feels heavy in his stomach. He can hardly remember the lightness he felt starting this morning.

 _Truthfully, at this moment in time, I don't have any problems. Not a single one._

He blinks back to reality.

"Did you get Sylvia Booker's bloodwork back yet?" he asks, hearing the change in his voice – conscientious attending. Not friend. And certainly not anything else.

Meredith stares at him for a moment. He feels ashamed, but hopes it doesn't show.

"I'm going right now," she says, right before she leaves.

..

Addison is beaming … and somehow sounding a little rueful all at the same time.

"I had a lunch date with the most _incredible_ man," she says.

Bailey just raises her eyebrows in response.

"He paid attention to me, Miranda. For a whole half hour. Well, some of that time he was sleeping, but it was with me … on me, actually."

Bailey is laughing now. "Sounds like quite a date."

"Oh, it was. And I have you to thank." She smiles down at the baby in her arms, stroking one of his soft, round cheeks lightly with the back of one finger. "You really know how to make a girl feel special, don't you, Tuck?" she asks him.

"Heard his charm comes from his daddy's side, actually, so I guess you should thank him instead of me." Bailey looks amused, then serious again. "Addison … you know Yang can watch him."

They exchange a wordless look.

"My point is, she's an intern. You – have real work to do. You have patients. Babies to deliver. Yang … is an intern."

"You said that already." Addison shifts the baby a little in her arms; he's sleepy and cuddly, warm against her. "But. I outrank Yang, so I get the baby."

Bailey raises her eyebrows. "I don't think that's how Yang sees it."

"Well, then she definitely doesn't get the baby." Addison cradles him a little closer.

"You're a natural," Bailey says.

 _You look so natural with a baby in your arms._

"Mm, I have a little training," she says, blinking to clear the unwanted image. "A couple of fellowships … you know how it is."

Bailey doesn't push it. "Think I heard the chief mention it a time or two. Something about the finest neonatal wing this side of the Mississippi."

"Something like that."

They exchange another smile.

"You're sure you don't mind watching him?"

"Mind? In case it's not clear, this is the most fun I've had in … ." Her voice trails off. "Um, I probably shouldn't finish that sentence, should I?"

"If you have to ask … then probably not." Bailey looks at her for a moment. "I really do appreciate your help. Can't thank you enough, actually. Chief's trying to … _mommy track_ me and I don't know how much more of this I can … ." She stops talking.

Addison smiles hesitantly, wondering if Bailey stopped talking because she thinks Addison can't relate. "I understand," she says. "I mean, I don't … have children. Obviously. But I do have two sisters-in-law in academic medicine with nine children between them, and I know what they went through."

"Nine children?" Bailey's eyes widen.

"Yeah. They're, uh, they're fertile." She laughs a little, shifting Tuck in her arms. "Lizzie had twins at forty-two, vaginal birth, no complications. I delivered them, actually." She pauses. "Too much information?"

Bailey frowns. "You delivered my baby," she says, "and I was a little distracted during the whole endeavor but I don't remember it being very modest."

Addison smiles. "Childbirth usually isn't."

Bailey's pager goes off just then. She glances down. "I should go. I have some … men to prove things to. If you're really sure you don't – "

" _Don't_ ask me again," Addison scolds with mock severity. "You couldn't pay me to hand over this guy. He's the best date I've had in a while."

Bailey just shakes her head in response and drops a quick kiss on her son's cheek before she leaves.

Addison watches her go, holding the baby close, then shifts him in her arms so she can look into his face. "What do you think, sweetheart, are we going to get a little more time together before your mommy finishes sticking it to the boys' club?" His big dark eyes twinkle and she feels her heart soften again. "Not that there's anything wrong with boys, to be clear. Especially not sweet, sweet ones like you." She kisses his forehead – he smells like baby powder, clean and fresh.

He gurgles a little in response.

"See, that's not so hard. I'm not that boring, am I?"

Tuck's eyes widen as he looks at her and she can't help beaming. She knows, as a professional, that his eyes are still developing, and he's working to focus on her face. Just as she knows when she holds him close again that he's burrowing into her instinctively. That he's grabbing a lock of her hair with his grasping reflex. That's all.

He makes a soft cooing sound and she forgets all her training.

He's just plain _adorable_ is what he is.

"Just stay like a … hundredth this sweet and you'll grow up to be the best guy around," she tells him, and he tugs a little harder on her hair in response as if he agrees.

..

Derek is walking to the nurses' station when his patient's husband catches up with him, apologizing for his wife. Derek assures him there's no need, but the man doesn't leave.

"I didn't notice her," he says.

Derek is confused. "I'm sorry?"

"For fifteen years, I didn't notice her. When we got married, she was everything and sometime, somewhere along the way, I stopped noticing her, I stopped seeing her, and since she's been sick she's all I've seen. And I hate that's what it took, I hate it, and I'm sorry. But I love her. And I don't want her … I don't want my wife to die. Please talk to her."

Uncomfortably, Derek nods.

"Dr. Shepherd … please."

"Okay." Ruefully, he smiles.

Derek walks away, the words still echoing lightly in his head.

 _I stopped noticing her._

He's feels uneasy, for some reason.

 _I stopped seeing her._

There's no reason to feel uneasy.

Just like there's no reason images of Addison holding the baby keep flitting through his mind.

 _So natural._ His mother said that the first Christmas Addison spent with his family: _You look so natural with a baby in your arms._ At the time, she was flattered, and he beamed with pride. Later, the same kind of remark would make her tense, make her hackles rise, and he'd pay the price in the car ride back to the city. He would let her vent. He didn't say: _but you do look so natural with a baby in your arms._ By then, it would have seemed like pressure.

She wouldn't have taken it well.

That's the uncomfortable irony he doesn't want to revisit: that Addison with a baby in her arms is the most natural thing in the world. Except it's never her own.

 _Always a bridesmaid, never a bride._ She said that once, ruefully, when she was cradling one of his sisters' babies under the Christmas tree. Years ago now. Smiling up at him, lights reflecting off her hair and in her blue eyes. _You look beautiful with a baby in your arms,_ that's what he told her then, and she brushed it off. Freed a hand, patted the carpet next to her, and he sat down cross-legged to wrap an arm around her while she rocked the baby.

He remembers another conversation with Meredith: _do you think it would have been different? If you had kids?_

But her voice is fading – her image, too, because he's preoccupied with how delighted Addison looked holding Bailey's baby. Even from across the hospital, her happiness was palpable.

Inescapable.

How long has it been since he's seen her that happy?

..

"Dr. Bailey … I understand there's another man in my wife's life."

"You throw another punch?" she asks darkly without looking up.

"Very funny." Derek frowns. The sooner everyone forgets about Mark's unwelcome visit, the better. "I meant your son."

"I know what you meant. You're not that hard to figure out." Her warm eyes soften her words, though. "I told Addison Yang could take care of the baby. Interns, they get scrub work. They should get scrub work. Not – double-barreled attendings in four-inch heels who outrank me by a mile."

Derek nods. There's not much Addison can't do in four-inch heels, in his experience. "I'd guess she used her … outranking you by a mile to insist on hanging onto the baby."

"You'd be right." Bailey almost looks impressed. "She didn't exactly refuse to write my fellowship recommendations if I gave the baby to Yang … ."

" … but she didn't _not_ refuse to," Derek proposes, smiling a little.

"Right again." Bailey pauses for a minute. "She's doing me a big favor. And she's great with him."

Derek nods, not really sure what to say about that. In New York, it would have been more … normal, to have someone praise Addison to him, and he'd thank them in that particular way you do with your spouse: a combination of pride and modesty. Humble … but maybe the tiniest bit arrogant too.

"I guess there's not much Addison can't do," Bailey says.

 _Except keep her wedding vows._

It's a cheap shot; it pops into his head uninvited. He doesn't say it out loud, at least, but he feels a slight, warm sense of shame nonetheless. Maybe because of Meredith's knowing, judging gaze earlier, at the catwalk. _Does Addison know we're friends?_

He smiles weakly at Bailey, who shakes her head a little – but somehow, it's almost affectionate, coming from her, even if it's exasperated too.

"If you don't mind, Shepherd, I'm going to get back to work so I can finish up and relieve your wife."

"Wrestle the baby away from her, you mean," he says automatically.

"She's welcome to him at three a.m. Call me at three a.m."

"Don't offer," Derek teases, "she'll take you up on it."

Bailey looks amused and as she walks away, Derek has another moment of – just a flicker of surprise. Joking around, about Addison, as if he knows her well. As if he could predict her actions, when the whole shape of the last six months should be telling him he didn't know her at all.

 _I stopped noticing her._

His patient's husband, again. In his head. Where he doesn't belong.

Derek frowns and gathers his things – he has work to do.

..

But he's distracted as he studies the scans, plans his next steps.

He can, with some effort, recall Addison joining him in the viewing room, earlier today. _Hey. I've been looking for you_ , that's what she said.

He didn't ask her why.

He doesn't remember everything she said – something about an actress, though he can't remember which one. She was standing there, inches away – he could smell her perfume – but he was too focused on Mrs. Booker's aneurysm to notice.

 _I stopped noticing her._

She wanted to talk to him, he supposes. He wasn't troubled about it then, and he has an excuse. No, not an excuse – a reason. He had a patient.

But for some reason it's sticking with him now.

It drives him to leave the viewing room, stretch his legs a little, and he walks by the large windows overlooking the outdoor cafeteria and sees them there.

Together.

..

" … twenty-eight weeks, that's right. A preterm rupture of her membrane. Oh, you knew that already? No wonder you're the best intern in this place." She kisses one of his soft cheeks. She's resting her elbow on the edge of the table – Bizzy would disapprove, of course, but it's a trick she learned from Derek's sisters. It only works if you're tall enough not to end up half-numb but she is, and the support means she can cradle the baby easily at an angle that lets him look up at her with his big brown eyes.

And she can see all of his sweet face, from those sparkling eyes to his tiny button nose to his little pink rosebud mouth.

He's fed, burped, and changed.

He's content.

He's awake.

And he's _focused_. He looks up at her with interest, his little pink lips working.

"You can't be hungry again. Oh, you're a growing boy? Well, you're right, then. I shouldn't have judged." She strokes one soft cheek with the backs of her fingers.

Talking to babies is … okay, fine, it's possible she's a little lonely here, in Seattle – okay, a lot lonely – but talking to babies isn't a Seattle thing. It's just a … _her_ thing, always has been. Her sisters-in-law used to get a kick out of it. She's been doing it forever, back to her earliest days with Derek's family, when they were in medical school. She loved holding whatever babies she could, but she also needed to study – so the two things just naturally combined. She'd cradle whichever baby didn't need to be nursed and … study out loud. Teach, really, but isn't that the best way to learn? It must have worked, because she aced her exams and Lizzie teased her after that first Christmas that Luke's first word was _epithelial_ because of her.

"It's a pretty straightforward Cesarean, but it's never too early for you to learn the process," she tells Tuck softly now. "What do you think? You can assist. You like that idea?" she asks, amused, when his eyes widen even more, responding to the tone of her voice.

..

He can hear Addison talking softly to the baby, but she's too engrossed with the bundle in her arms to notice Derek's approach. She's sitting curved around him, her arm propped on the side of the wrought-iron table, beaming down at the baby. Her long hair is moving slightly in the breeze.

 _Talking to the baby._

So not that much has changed.

Dozens of memories filter through his mind, uninvited: Addison cradling a tiny niece or nephew, cooing to them in what sounded like … _baby talk_ , for lack of a better word, but was actually just talk. Real words, real things. Studying, when they were in medical school. Cases, later. The babies always responded to her – something about her voice, maybe, or her focused attention, but he has so many recollections of family amusement, even delight, around the way their nieces and nephews would stare and coo and gurgle in response to Addison's sweet-voiced lectures on epidemiology or the proper technique for a painless hysterosalpingogram.

Closer now, he sees how warmly she's gazing at the baby, her face soft and relaxed.

"Should I be jealous?"

She looks up, surprised, and then laughs a little as one of the baby's hands reaches up to tangle in a lock of her long hair. "No. Well, yeah, maybe." She smiles at him, but it's far more tentative than the uninhibited, wide smile the baby was getting before he got there.

"Seems fair." Derek points to the bundle in her arms. "He's cute."

"He's Bailey's," she says, sounding almost self-conscious.

"I know." He pauses. "William, right?"

Addison nods. "Well, legally, yes. Bailey calls him Tuck."

"Tuck. Well, he's adorable." Derek holds a finger out to the baby, who grabs it with interest, pulling a little.

He has to lean forward.

"I guess Tuck, uh, he wants you to sit down," Addison says, sounding almost shy. Hesitant, like she thinks he might say no.

 _I've been looking for you._

"Well, if that's what Tuck wants." Derek keeps his tone light as he pulls out the chair next to hers, smoothing his coat down as he sits. He watches her with the baby for another moment, letting the little boy grasp his finger again.

"You delivered him," he says.

"I did." She strokes the baby's cheek. "While you saved his father's life."

"You had an eventful entry into the world, huh, Tuck?" Derek moves his finger a little so the baby can grab it again.

Addison's quiet for a moment – not talking to the baby anymore, or to him either, just looking ... pensive, maybe a little wistful.

He could talk to her.

He could ask her what she wanted before, why she said she'd been looking for him.

But she talks before he can.

"I, uh, I didn't deliver him."

Derek frowns. "What do you mean?"

It's not like that was a forgettable day – and anyway, she was monitoring Bailey's pregnancy for months beforehand, always planning to deliver.

"No, I mean … I did deliver him. Well. Physically, anyway." She strokes the baby's head, her gaze fixed elsewhere like she's looking at a memory. "But I couldn't have done it without O'Malley."

"O'Malley?" Derek raises an eyebrow. " _Couldn't have done it without O'Malley_ , that's not a phrase you hear around here very much."

She makes a face at him, and he makes one back. Traditionally, he was harder on the interns. Addison always had high expectations, but she tempered them with a lot of encouragement.

"O'Malley comes through sometimes. He came through that time," Addison says quietly. "Miranda, she … was upset. She didn't want to push. She wanted to wait for Tucker."

Derek listens. Of course Bailey's husband couldn't be there for the delivery – he was on the table in Derek's OR, his life hanging in the balance. While a patient with an unexploded grenade in his chest had the entire hospital on edge.

"She was at nine and a half centimeters but refusing to push, and – she wouldn't consent to a section and I – thought I was going to have to do it anyway."

"Against her will," Derek says. "Really?"

"What could I have done? The baby was in distress, and Miranda was in even more distress."

"But you didn't end up sectioning her," he prompts.

"No. That's when O'Malley … ." She waves a hand in a rueful sort of flourish as if to say _saved the day._

"Ah." Derek nods. "Well, then it's a good thing he was there."

"Right."

The baby makes a soft whimpering sound and she redirects her attention to him, cuddling him close and cooing to him until he's quiet again.

He watches her, a question on the tip of his tongue he's not quite sure how to ask.

"You can ask," she says, and his eyes widen. It's a feeling he hasn't had in a long time – almost as if she can read his mind. Still, he confirms. Surely she can't still know his thoughts that well, not after all that's happened between them.

"Ask what?"

"Ask why I needed an intern – and not exactly the star of the cohort either – to _save the day_ on an uncomplicated full-term delivery."

"Okay." He watches her with the baby for another moment. He's fallen asleep with his head against long lashes on one soft cheek. "Why did you need an intern … of any caliber … to save the day?"

"Because I was preoccupied," Addison says. "I was worried."

The grenade – of course.

"I think everyone was worried that day," he says.

"I was worried about _you_ ," she clarifies. Her voice is quiet, but fierce.

Oh. He's not sure what to say.

"You were operating, right in the line of – and I had no idea what was going on except that I knew you would never leave Tucker until the surgery was done, no matter how dangerous it was. I knew you would be too focused on the surgery, on the patient, you wouldn't notice – "

Abruptly, she stops talking.

"Addison."

"No, it's okay." But her voice is shaking a little. "I was worried, and that's why I wasn't – on my game, with Miranda, that day. That's all."

But it's not all, he can tell from her tone and her expression. He just waits.

While he waits, he remembers that day.

He remembers it in intense, brightly lit moments that are nonetheless blurred. Whited out. Fear and confusion but above it all, the intensity of the procedure – Bailey's husband in his OR, his brain open on the table.

The patient, with the grenade.

And the girl with her hand on the grenade …

Who turned out to be Meredith.

Addison starts talking again.

"You remember when – when you and Preston rode up in the elevator, after the surgery?"

Slowly, he nods.

He remembers that, easily. He was exhausted, pulling off his surgical cap; it was damp and wrinkled. And he was anxious.

He was worried.

 _Where is she?_ That's what he asked. _Where is she?_

Adele and Richard were there. Directing him to Addison. Except –

"I wasn't the _she_ you were asking about," Addison says softly.

Derek's chest tightens.

"Don't deny it. You don't have to, I mean," Addison says – her tone lacks aggression. If anything, it's sad.

He doesn't deny it. He couldn't, even if he wanted to. It would be too hard to lie sitting inches from his wife when her face is so open in daylight, when there's a baby in her arms blinking sleepily up at her magnetic face.

"Meredith was the one you were looking for."

"Meredith was the one I was looking for," he admits.

It's true, of course – he was near frantic with all the fear he had to push down to operate successfully.

He doesn't ask her how she knows.

He doesn't need to, not really. They exchange a glance that tells him everything he needs to know, a glance of eleven years of marriage that says: _I just knew._

Whether from his face, or his posture, or his embrace … she knew.

Of course she did; she still sees him. Saw him then. After everything that's happened between them.

"Meredith was the one I was looking for," he repeats. "But … you were the one I found," he reminds her, quietly.

She rushed into his arms as he stood there exhausted on the linoleum floor, a blur of royal blue scrubs, before he even knew what was happening.

 _Derek. You're okay._

He didn't say anything, he remembers now – couldn't, just wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her shoulder while guilt and disappointment and shame coursed through him along with the rest of his adrenaline comedown.

She clung to him for long moments while neither of them spoke, just – breathed, he could feel each of her rapid breaths against his body.

"I was worried about you," she repeats now, softly. "Worried enough that I – I couldn't even deliver Miranda's baby."

"You did deliver her baby." Derek gestures at the content bundle in her arms. "Hard to deny that when he's right here."

"Barely." Addison looks down at Tuck again.

"Addie."

She glances up, her expression uncertain.

"I knew you were in L&D. You weren't over the gas line. You weren't near the grenade."

It sounds like he's making excuses. Reasons, not excuses, at least in his mind. But if he wasn't worried – well, he had reason not to be.

Slowly, she nods.

"I was worried about Meredith," he admits. "She had her hand on a grenade, and – I was worried."

"And you were looking for her."

He nods.

"But you found me."

He nods again. Or really – she found him.

And she hung on.

And when she was calm enough to let him go, they left together. They went home.

She tucked a hand through his arm when they walked through the hallway; she did that a lot, but he could feel her hand shaking this time – or maybe it was her body pressed against him. She was all nervous chatter in his jeep as they drove until she seemed to notice he wasn't responding and then fell so silent he thought she might be sleeping.

But she wasn't.

She didn't sleep until later, in the trailer, once they'd both showered and changed and he'd scraped together the makings of hot tea – he didn't have what he'd need for cocoa, but he laced her tea with sugar anyway, without asking. She seemed to need it. He wasn't tired, but she was; she fell asleep with her head in his lap while he sat up against the headboard, staring out the window. He hardly had to do anything to move her when she stood up, just started gently to shift her and she did the rest herself, curling away from him. He drew a blanket over her and waited to make sure she was fully asleep.

And then he went to see Meredith.

And he can tell, from her expression, that she knows that too.

"It's okay," she says quietly.

"Nothing happened." He's not sure why he's saying it.

"I know."

"You do?"

She nods. "She, uh, she went through a lot that day, Meredith. I know you wouldn't have … ." Her voice trails off. "That night, I mean."

He considers her words, pieces them back together into full sentences. She's saying, he's fairly certain, that she doesn't think he would have taken advantage of Meredith after the trauma of the grenade patient.

"Thank you," he says slowly. "I think."

She smiles a little. "I just … I know she had a hard time. It's a lot." Her voice is quiet. "When I came out here, and when you – we, I mean – and then her mother was here, and Cristina's ectopic, and …." Her voice trails off now. "What?" she asks.

"Nothing."

But it's something. It's the recitation of everything Meredith has been through – well, some of it, anyway – compounded by his neglecting to tell her he was married, and then leaving her to return to his wife. It's whatever happened between her and her friends that has her so upset, that she won't tell him.

It's Addison thinking enough of him that he wouldn't take advantage.

Except she has no idea, as Meredith reminded him today, that he's been encouraging Meredith to seek him out, to consider him a friend, to talk to him.

 _I know you wouldn't have …_

He sees Meredith's expression earlier today when his own changed, the tone of his voice, at her question: _Does Addison know we're friends?_ When he made it clear he was shutting her out.

Addison … might think more of him than he deserves.

He swallows hard, glances down at his watch. He needs to get ready to operate.

When he raises his eyes, she's just … looking at him.

"I, uh, I should probably go."

Addison lifts her free hand so she can see her watch. "I'm going to sit out here a little longer – Tuck likes the fresh air."

He nods. "I have a surgery," he adds, feeling, oddly, a little regretful that he needs to leave.

"The huge aneurysm."

"Right." So she remembers coming to the viewing room.

"Good luck."

"Thank you." He stands up, then pauses and touches Tuck's cheek lightly with one finger. "See you later, Tuck. Don't get too comfortable," he adds jokingly, noting how sweetly the baby is cuddled up to Addison.

She looks like she's fighting a smile.

"Catherine Deneuve."

He says the name abruptly.

Addison looks a little embarrassed. "What, um, what about her?"

"That's what you – you asked me if I thought you looked like her. Before."

She shakes her head a little as if clearing it. "Yeah, I was just – forget it, Derek. It doesn't matter."

But he's studying her face, even as she flushes a little under his gaze.

"She's blonde," he says.

"Yeah. You mentioned that earlier. You also said she was French … and hot."

"Well." He looks at her again. "One out of three isn't too bad."

He notices her cheeks flush a little more at his words.

He really does need to go.

Leaning down, he kisses her – briefly, just a quick goodbye. And then, for some reason, again … a little longer this time.

When he pulls back, she's gazing up at him, her eyes very wide.

"What was that for?"

 _I saw you._

He smiles a little.

 _I stopped seeing you, but I see you now._

"Derek?"

He looks at her. Her expression is a little uncertain, but … in an interested way, not that anxious way he noticed when he first approached.

He looks at her … and he sees her.

"Do I need a reason?" he asks mildly.

"No. I guess not." She smiles slightly. "Good, uh, good luck on your surgery."

"Thank you." He pauses. "It might go late. I'm not sure how long it will take."

She nods, what's left of her smile dropping. "I understand. I'll just – I'll see you at home?"

Her voice rises at the end of the sentence, like she's not sure.

"Yeah."

So it's settled.

Except she's looking down at the baby again, her face soft and open, and he sees her.

"Or you could wait for me."

She looks up, raising an eyebrow.

"If you want," he adds. "If you have work to do, I mean. If you want to, you could wait for me. And we could go home together."

She blinks. Her face is unguarded, surprise in her eyes. "That … would be nice," she says slowly.

"Good." He nods.

"Good luck with the aneurysm," she says.

"Thank you." He nods toward the baby. "Good luck with the mini-Bailey."

She laughs – it's short but genuine. Happy, even.

He still hears it when he scrubs in, prepared to do whatever he can to make sure Kyle Booker doesn't lose his wife. Not now … not when he's finally noticed her.

He hears it when he scrubs out, after a successful surgery, thanking Meredith quickly for her skillful assist before he heads for the elevator.

Then he makes his way to Addison's office, knocking on the door and, when he pushes it open, seeing her smile that's part surprise, maybe part relief too, definitely part happiness.

And all her.

* * *

 _Okay, Addison with babies = instant heart melting for me and I'm guessing a lot of you. Derek's heart might be a little harder to melt, but it's there somewhere. He made it all the way to the quasi-apology in the real episode. Note that I wanted Derek, once he'd noticed Addison, to leave right after the surgery instead of having that awful conversation with Mer where she "confesses" to sleeping with George. Confesses in quotes, of course, since Derek's response to it and everyone's treatment of Meredith around it is so awful. In the episode, he's hanging around Meredith, pressuring her to open up to him, in a really unfair way, and I wanted him to see that, even if it's just a little - in addition to seeing Addison, which was the main point of the flip. Those two sides of how he was treating them during this period of S2 were closely linked._

 _And then since Tuck was born during the Superbowl episode (do we still call it that? Am I dating myself?), it felt right to bring up his delivery and how worried Addison was about Derek while he operated on Tucker. Finally, because it's relevant, the baby (or presumably babies) who played Tuck ... super, super cute. If you want to feel old, they're like ... 12 or 13 now._

 _So, I hope you enjoyed this flip - at least enough to put up with my very long flip notes. And I hope you'll let me know what you think, because I'm reluctantly buckling back down to work now and hearing from you (I'll only check during breaks, seriously) will help a LOT. Feel free to leave more prompts too - I love hearing from you and it motivates the Christmas out of me!_


	33. So We're All Still Friends?

Hi script flippers and wonderful Addek readers. This flip was requested by **ruflypicture,** and the words "2.25" and "elevator" were enough to send me sobbing to Netflix. The awkward elevator threeway conversation is an iconic Addek scene but it kind of gets swallowed up in the bigger, juicier scene later in that episode on the catwalk when Derek and Addison finally, sort of have it out. I flipped this script ages ago in chapter 4 ("That's All I Get?") and I didn't realize until now that both of the titles of these flips are actually questions. It makes sense, since both are Addison quotes, and she spends pretty much the whole episode asking questions. Really, really sad questions. This elevator scene breaks my heart. The end of season 2 was one of the most painful Addek pieces because of how much both Addison and Meredith suffered under Derek's poorly-intentioned, poorly-carried-out "let's be friends" regime. So yeah. The elevator scene is painful. We're just been at the vet with a very sick Doc, where Derek snaps at Meredith over how to treat Doc, because Meredith had the nerve to start dating Finn *after Derek left her for his wife* (I still have some bitterness around season 2 - shocking, right? Sooooo out of character for me). As you recall, maybe, the scene cuts to an awkward elevator ride with Addison standing between Derek and Meredith and trying to figure out what's going on between them. It's short, NOT sweet, and very upsetting. It's also like two seconds long, so flipping it posed a challenge.

But then I remembered that elevators are tricky magic in Shondaland, and it went from there.

I hope you enjoy this flip, and thank you **ruflypicture** for the prompt!

* * *

 **So We're All Still Friends?  
** _(2.25, "17 Seconds")_

* * *

"So, what's – I mean, is there something going on?" his wife asks uncertainly.

"No," Derek and Meredith respond in unison.

He can see in his peripheral vision that Addison is looking from one of them to the other and back again, from her position standing between them.

"Did you have a fight?" she tries.

"No."

Unison again.

He should be concerned, maybe, or sorry, but he's too busy being angry and too busy avoiding looking at Meredith. The nerve of her, to act like she has a say in what _his_ dog needs. After what she –

"So … we're all still friends?" Addison asks now in that same uneasy tone.

"Yes," Derek and Meredith respond in unison a final time

The awkward silence that descends is mercifully short: Derek studiously avoids meeting either woman's gaze and then the elevator doors open a mere moment later, allowing him and Meredith to stalk off in opposite directions.

He's relieved …

Until he realizes this isn't his floor.

Annoyed – he doesn't need to be distracted from his job on top of everything else – he stabs at the elevator button and the doors open again to reveal a surprised-looking Addison.

 _Great._

"Did you forget something?" she asks.

"Wrong floor," he says, looking at his shoes. He doesn't need to see her face right now; he's been married long enough to know when she's seconds from starting in on him and sure enough –

"Derek," she begins, her voice still with that uncertain quality, "As long as you're here, I was just, um, wondering if – "

The elevator stops with a slightly heavier than usual thud before she can finish.

He gives her a practiced helpless sort of smile, an _I would totally hash this out with you except we're at my floor so there's no time you know how it is nothing personal_ sort of smile.

He doesn't wait to see if it works.

It _will_ work, because the elevator's stopped, except –

"The doors aren't opening," Addison says from behind him.

"Yes. I noticed the doors aren't opening."

He hears the clicking before he sees her stabbing the door open button repeatedly with a manicured finger.

"Would you stop that? You're going to jam it."

"What, and make it stall, you mean?" She raises an eyebrow. "It's already stalled."

So it's official: she'll argue with him about anything. He massages the bridge of his nose; the day has barely even started and he's already exhausted.

She does stop, though.

Derek sizes up the doors, placing both palms flat on them.

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to open the doors."

"With what, brute strength?" When he doesn't answer, she pulls at the sleeve of his jacket. "Derek – stop."

"Why?"

"Because we might be between floors, and if you pull open the doors … ." He feels rather than sees her shudder, next to and partly behind him. He doesn't have to ask to know she's thinking of a particularly gory case from the second year of their residency.

"Fine."

They're not opening anyway; it's not really a concession.

He pushes the emergency intercom button.

"Hello?" he calls

No answer.

Isn't it supposed to make a noise or something, to show that it's working –

"Hello?" he calls again.

"I knew something was wrong with this elevator," Addison is murmuring behind him.

"You knew – " He turns to her, shaking his head. "If you knew something was wrong with this elevator, why did you get on it?"

"I didn't _know_ , know," she clarifies. "I just … knew."

Derek shakes his head again, going back to pressing the emergency call button. "You're either not making sense or this elevator is already running out of oxygen."

"Why not both?" she asks lightly, leaning back against the wall.

"You don't seem very upset about our predicament," he observes.

"Not as upset as you must be … to be stuck with me."

"Oh, here we go." He pulls out his blackberry, jabbing at the buttons. If he can't press the intercom, at least he can email. It's early, but that's not going to matter in a hospital, where –

"The Chief knows the elevator stalled." He holds up his blackberry triumphantly. "They're getting someone in to fix it now, and – "

"And?" she prompts.

"And the intercom is broken. Apparently that's part of – whatever's wrong."

Addison nods, seemingly taking it in stride. "Did he say how long it would take to fix?"

"No," Derek admits. He looks at his watch, sighing.

"I have patients," he says when Addison glances at him.

"Not me, I'm here for a massage," she retorts.

"Would you just – "

The elevator jerks as if it's going to start moving and he stops talking. He grips the rail on his side, nodding toward hers automatically.

"Took them long enough," Addison sighs, as the elevator heaves again –

And then, without warning, they're plunged into darkness.

Total, utter darkness.

Darkness that makes the peaceful trailer-in-the-woods nighttime seem like a lit-up Manhattan street. For seconds he just tries to find his bearings.

"Derek?"

He turns toward the sound of her nervous voice. "Yeah."

"Where are you?"

"I'm here."

"Obviously," she says, "but where's here – oh!"

"Ow," he says ruefully, rubbing in the dark at the spot that bore the brunt of her sharp elbow.

"Sorry," she says, a little breathlessly. He can tell she's close by the displacement of air and the scent of her shampoo. She brought it with her from Manhattan, apparently. God forbid he not be able to locate her in the dark by her ridiculously overpriced beauty products.

"I was just – trying to find you," she adds.

"Well, you found me."

He can hear her uneven breathing.

"It's really dark," she says, and there's some self-conscious laughter in her tone but she sounds uneasy too.

It is.

"Derek?"

He senses instinctually she's trying to figure out where he is rather than start a conversation – for once.

"I'm right here," he says. "Just – don't move for a second."

"Okay," she says, sounding almost relieved. So his instinct was right.

Slowly, he puts out a hand and makes contact with some part of her – an arm, he realizes, recognizing the fabric of her coat.

"That's you, right?"

"Of course it's me, Addison, who else do you think is in this elevator?"

"I don't know – it's dark!"

"But there was no one else in – " he stops talking. He can't have a logical argument with his wife when the goal is just argument, plain and simple. He pauses. "You don't have a flashlight in your bag, do you?"

"No," she says regretfully.

"Maybe you should keep one in it. It's not like you don't have room."

"Sorry, this is _my_ fault?" she asks. "I should have known the elevator would stall and packed a flashlight?"

"Never mind." He tries to keep the irritation out of his tone.

"What's taking them so long?" she asks now, moving her arm out of his grasp.

That's fine with him; he was just trying to reassure her.

"It hasn't been that long," he reminds her now, even though privately he'd agree it already feels like hours. Of all the times to get trapped in an elevator, and with all the people … .

"I can't see anything," she says, interrupting his thoughts.

"Yes, darkness will do that."

She lets out an irritated breath.

"Our eyes will adjust," he says, somewhat conciliatory. "You have to be patient."

"Just wait it out," she mutters. "Right?"

" … right," he says, not really sure of the inflection in her voice, but not feeling like questioning it either.

He hears the shift, and feels the air move, as she pulls away and starts to move along the elevator's perimeter.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"I don't know."

She's thumping on the walls, apparently.

First one, then another.

"Addison – would you stop that?"

"We have to do something!"

"They know we're here, Addison. They're working on it."

More thumping.

"Stop it," he says, raising his voice.

She stops, mid-thump.

"Thank you."

"My pleasure," she says icily.

He has no idea what's eating her.

And he doesn't particularly want to find out, either.

 _Richard, I know you already did me a favor giving me this job, but I could really use just one more right now._

..

It's still dark.

They're still stuck.

Addison is still moving around, though she hasn't thumped the walls since his outburst, at least.

The third time she snakes past him on a lap around the elevator he loses what's left of his patience.

"Would you just – pick a spot already?"

"Why?"

 _Because it's annoying._

"Because eventually the elevator is going to start moving again," he says, rubbing his head tiredly. He really needs to get out of here. "And when it does – "

But he doesn't have to finish the sentence, because two things happen: the lights flicker back on, and then the elevator lurches, hard.

And then the lights go out again, but not before he sees the momentum of the elevator catch Addison off guard, her huge startled eyes illuminated by the fluorescents. Galvanized, he starts to move toward her but by the time the lights go out he's already heard the thump of her body hitting the ground.

"Addison!"

"I'm okay," she calls a second later, her voice shaky.

It's too dark to see.

He can't see anything.

"Just stay where you are," he orders as he follows the sound of her voice, the sight of her fall, and she laughs a little, mirthlessly.

"Where am I going to go?"

He doesn't answer, he's feeling his way along the walls toward her. He's heard something in her voice that's more than annoyance or impatience with the stalled elevator. And sure enough, when he's inched close enough to touch her – which he can tell by the scent of her shampoo – he hears her inhale sharply.

"Are you hurt?"

"No. I don't know."

"Don't move," he says; the last thing they need is for him to injure her trying to get down on the ground with her.

He has to feel around the walls a bit before he can lower himself without touching her, not sure yet how she fell.

"I think … I think I twisted my ankle," she admits once he's on the ground.

"You're not wearing the best choice of shoes for stalled elevators."

He's guessing, but he knows he's right.

"I love these shoes," she says, sounding so surprised that anyone would think otherwise he can't help smiling.

"Even if they twist your ankle?" he asks.

"They didn't twist my ankle … the elevator twisted my ankle."

He doesn't answer. He's gearing up to do his best blind exam in the darkness.

"Did you hurt anything else?"

"My pride … what's left of it, anyway."

Fair enough, but that injury can wait until the lights come on.

"Which ankle?" he asks.

He feels her hand cover his – it's cool to the touch – and direct him.

"Ow," she groans when he makes contact.

"Sorry." He has the lay of the land now. Carefully, he starts to remove her shoe.

"Ow!" she repeats. "Derek, stop – "

"You need to take off the shoe. Just hold still for a second."

He's doing his best to be gentle, but he can feel the rapid swelling even without the benefit of electricity. She breathes sharply, he moves slowly, and he manages to get the shoe off.

"Just leave it," she says once he has her stockinged foot in his lap, her voice tight with pain.

"Let me take a look."

"It's dark."

"A feel, then. Come on, Addie."

"Fine." She exhales, annoyed. "It better not be sprained."

"It's probably sprained," he says after the blindest, and gentlest, exam he was able to manage.

"Great. Just what I needed," she says bitterly, but he's distracted trying to figure out how to treat her injury.

"You can't ice it right now," he says, more to himself than to her. He pauses. "What are you wearing, Addison?"

" … I don't think that kind of treatment is a good idea," she says uncertainly. "They could fix the elevator and put the lights back on any minute."

He laughs a little in spite of himself. "Are you wearing anything with a – sash, or – " he stops talking, trying to picture her outfit. He can't. Well. She's wearing pointed shoes, one of which he had to pry off her swelling foot. And a skirt, because her lower legs were bare but for her stockings. And –

"Your coat," he says.

"What about it?"

"It has a sash," he says. "A – strap, whatever. A soft belt. Take it off."

She stops asking him questions and lets him reach out carefully, gingerly, to help her slide the belt from the loops of her trench coat.

"What are you going to do with the belt?" she asks.

"I'm going to make a compression bandage."

"Derek … do you really need to wrap it? Aren't we going to be out of here really soon?"

He doesn't respond.

"Fine, wrap it, but just be – ow," she flinches when he touches the ankle.

"Try to hold still."

" _You_ try to be gentle."

"I am trying," he says defensively.

"Well, so am I," she retorts.

..

"Aren't you uncomfortable?" she asks for the third time.

"No," he says again.

He's lying.

He's been lying each time, but she needs to keep her ankle elevated, and the simplest way to do it in a darkened elevator is for him to sit with his knees up, holding her ankle on his lap. He keeps her lower leg steady with a grip on her shins – she can't be that comfortable either, but the speed of the swelling was alarming him, and he wants her foot above her heart.

"Okay," she says in a small voice. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure."

"I can't believe I fell," she says a few moments later. She sounds annoyed now. "I shouldn't have gotten on the elevator."

"Addison – "

"No, I need to trust my instincts more. This elevator is all – messed up. The elevator is messed up, just like I thought, and you – you were having a lovers' quarrel with Meredith."

"Addison."

"You were having a lovers' quarrel," she repeats. "And if I had trusted my instincts more, then I would have left Mark sooner."

He tries to take this in.

Lovers' quarrel.

Meredith.

 _Mark._

Wait a minute.

"Left Mark," he repeats, "You were – _with_ Mark?"

"Yeah. No, not really. But, well, kind of … like you're with Meredith."

"What's that supposed to mean? I'm not with Meredith."

"Derek, I saw you with her this morning. In the vet's office, and here in the elevator. I've been married to you for eleven years, and before that, I dated you. I know what it looks like when you're _with_ someone."

"I was with Meredith," he says evenly. "I was with her, but now I'm not with her. I left her. At your request," he reminds her now.

He hears her draw a breath.

"I left her and stayed with you," he repeats.

"You stayed with me … but you didn't leave her," Addison responds.

He shakes his head, even knowing she can't see him.

"I thought you did, or I – I hoped you did, but then this morning … ."

"Nothing happened this morning," Derek says tightly.

"So you're not going to tell me what's going on with the two of you?"

"There's nothing to tell."

"Derek, don't you get it?" she sounds incredulous. " _Nothing_ is something. _Nothing_ is one of the biggest somethings there is."

"You've lost me."

"I hope not," she says softly.

"Addison – "

"You were ignoring her, in the elevator," she continues as if he hasn't spoken.

"No I wasn't."

"You weren't talking to her."

"Not talking to someone doesn't mean you're ignoring them."

"Except when it does, Derek. And it did."

"Addison." He sighs. "This isn't really the – "

" – time?" she finishes for him. "Derek, we're stuck in an elevator … together. If this isn't the time, when is?"

He doesn't respond.

"You were ignoring her."

"That's what you wanted to say?" he asks. "Just repeat the same thing again? How many times are you going to say it?"

"Until you hear it."

"I hear it."

"Do you?" she challenges. "You really have no idea how _loud_ you are when you're ignoring someone?"

"Addison –"

"When you're ignoring someone you actually care about, I mean. You used to ignore me that way. Now, when you ignore me … you're just quiet."

He doesn't say anything.

"When you ignore me … you're just … not talking to me. These days, I mean. But that's not how you were ignoring Meredith."

"Fine. That's not how I was ignoring Meredith." He sighs. "Can we talk about something else now?"

"Fine," she repeats.

Long moments of silence ensue.

"I'm worried about Doc," she admits finally, her voice quiet.

"Yeah." He sighs again, patting her shin gingerly with one of the hands resting on it. "I'm worried about him too."

..

"I wish they'd … update us or something."

"I don't think they can without the intercom," Derek says. And Richard's last email didn't tell him much. He doesn't want to check right now anyway; shifting under Addison's injured ankle was uncomfortable enough for her the first time he fished out his blackberry – though she didn't complain – that he's not itching to try it again.

"They could yell," she suggests.

"From where?" Derek pauses. "How much do you know about elevators?"

" … not that much," she admits.

"Yeah." He rests his hands over her shin, keeping her leg steady. "I thought so."

She's quiet for a moment.

"Derek – you asked why I got on the elevator, if I knew … even if I didn't _know_ know … that something was wrong."

He nods, then makes a vague sound of affirmation when he remembers the lights are out.

"I got on the elevator because you got on the elevator."

"I'm not following," he says after a moment.

"I know. _I'm_ following."

He shakes his head, even knowing she can't see him. "Start over," he proposes.

"I wish we could."

"Addison … you're not making any sense."

He hears her inhale in that way she does when she's bracing herself. Somehow all of her little habits and inflections are twice as noticeable in the darkness. Three times, maybe.

"I got on the elevator because you got on the elevator, Derek. I followed you onto the elevator just like I followed you to Seattle."

He considers this.

"I'm not sure either one was such a great decision."

"You're sorry you came to Seattle," he repeats, trying to make sense of what she's saying.

"Are you?" she asks instead of answering. "Sorry I came to Seattle, I mean."

"Addison, don't do this." He leans back against the cold surface of the elevator wall.

"Why?"

"Why?" he repeats. "Because – we're in an elevator."

Somewhat tactfully, for her, she doesn't tell him his answer makes no sense. They sit in silence for long moments; his hands are still resting on her shin and he feels her flinch.

"What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Addison."

"Derek." She sighs a little. "Look, you're a brilliant surgeon, we all know this, and I'm not saying anyone else would do a better job using a … coat sash to apply a compression wrap to a sprained ankle in a blackout."

"But," he prompts when she doesn't continue.

"But it hurts," she says, sounding rather irritated about it rather than pitiful. "A little," she adds.

Addison and her pride: god forbid anyone think she's anything but bulletproof.

"If I could just – "

"Don't." He holds onto her shin when she starts to move her foot, partly because she needs to elevate it and partly from predicting, correctly – as she hisses with pain – that she's just going to make it worse by moving it.

"It's cramping, Derek, I need to take it down."

"No, you need to keep it elevated. Just hold still for a second, Addie." He works his hand under her calf – the muscle feels tight and angry under his fingers. He massages the area carefully, his other hand supporting her Achilles, that powerful and vulnerable and very necessary tendon.

After a few minutes of massage, he feels the tension drain out of her cramped muscle and hears her sigh of relief.

"Thanks."

He grips her shin lightly in response.

"You know … I always wondered why she didn't just dip him twice," she says, almost dreamily.

"Hm?" He's confused at the seeming non sequitur.

"Achilles. His mother, I mean. She dips him in the – immortal river or whatever – so he's totally bulletproof everywhere except the back of his heel. Right?"

"Right," he says; he's not sure he fully remembers the myth but it sounds familiar.

"And then, you know, he ends up getting an arrow right in that spot."

He can't see her but feels displacement of air and can tell she's gesturing.

"Right," he says again.

"But I don't think there was anything in the story where she could only dip him once. Why didn't she just – switch hands or something after, and dip him again? So all of him was protected?"

"I don't know," he says after a moment when he realizes she's waiting for an answer. "It's just a story."

"Stories should make sense."

"They don't always."

"They don't always … but they should."

..

"Derek?"

"Hm?"

"Do I have a reason?"

"A reason for what?" He'll blame the darkness on not being able to keep up with her. He shifts position as carefully as he can when his back stiffens, mindful of her sprained ankle propped in his lap. She doesn't object but he hears her inhale sharply at the movement.

"Sorry." He squeezes her uninjured shin lightly.

"A reason to be jealous."

He's surprised. On a morning where the elevator stopped, the lights went out, and nothing has gone as planned – he's still surprised to hear that word.

 _Jealous._

"Addison – "

"Derek."

They're both quiet for a moment.

"You're not friends."

"Addison. Don't start this again."

"Maybe I never stopped it."

"You can stop it now," he suggests.

She doesn't; he's not exactly surprised.

He _is_ surprised that he answers.

Maybe it's the darkness.

Maybe they've just both had enough.

"Meredith … has moved on," he says quietly; he's aware there's a faint undertone of bitterness and equally aware she won't miss it.

You don't miss much, after a decade and a half together. Even in the darkness. Even in silence.

Which is, he's fairly sure now, either part of the problem … or part of its solution.

Or both.

"Oh."

Just one syllable, but somehow packed with nuance. He hears her inhale, knows she's preparing to speak, and isn't sure he can take whatever her follow-up question – of course it's a question – will be.

"She's dating," he says. "She's dating Finn."

"Finn. The vet, Finn?"

"Yeah." _That's the one._ He grimaces.

"Meredith is dating the vet?"

There's a tremor in her voice that doesn't make sense.

"Yes, Addison, I just said – "

"No, it's fine." Her voice is high and shaky now. "She's dating the vet. Of course she is."

"Addison."

"I have to get out of here," she says, making little sense, and he feels her actually start to get up, pulling her injured leg away from him and then hissing in pain.

"What are you doing?" he asks sharply, reaching out in the dark to prevent her from aggravating her injury.

She pushes at his hands and then can't seem to help gasping at the effect on her ankle.

"Stop it. You're going to hurt yourself."

"And that's your job."

"Addison." He shakes his head. Of course this conversation was a mistake. "Just – stop it." His hand finds her scrambling one and grips it before she can try to move her injured foot again. "Stop," he repeats firmly.

"Let go, Derek. I need to stand up."

"You can't stand up, Addison, that's why you're on the floor."

"No. I'm on the floor because I followed you onto the elevator. I'm on the floor … because I followed you to Seattle."

She's stopped trying to pull her hand away, but it's limp in his grip. She sounds tired.

They're both quiet for a moment.

"Well, if we're going to retrace our steps, then you're actually on the floor because _I_ followed you out of anatomy lab," he says.

"Why?" she asks abruptly.

"Why what?"

"Why did you follow me out of anatomy lab?"

"To ask you to go out with me," he says, mechanically. "You don't remember?"

"I remember. I was asking why, though? Why follow me then, ask me then?"

He considers it for a moment. "Instinct, I guess."

She doesn't respond.

..

"Ask me why I'm not surprised Meredith is dating the vet."

"Addison."

"Ask me," she insists.

"I don't want to play this game."

"It's not a game!" she raises her voice, then takes an audible breath before he can respond. "It's not a game, Derek. It's our lives. It's our life."

He doesn't say anything; he's uncomfortable but he's trapped – forget the elevator, he's currently a … footstool for a sprained ankle on top of everything else.

She doesn't say anything either, but the rhythm of her breath is louder than words: _I'm waiting_ , it says. _I can hold out longer than you can._

"Fine." He sighs irritably. "Why aren't you surprised that Meredith is dating the vet?"

He says it without expression. _Dating the vet._ See? He can do that.

"Because it explains a lot," she says.

"Which is more than I can say for you," he can't help muttering in response.

She's silent.

"What does it … explain?" he asks finally, dutifully.

"The other night."

"The other – if you have something to say, Addison, just say it."

"I have a lot to say, Derek. But I'm not used to your actually … sticking around to hear it, so you'll have to give me a second here." She doesn't sound angry; if anything, she just sounds … sad.

He doesn't object to her characterization, either.

"The other night," she repeats. "When you came back to the trailer all – raring to go. Like you'd just finished a successful surgery. Except then you reminded me … later," she says delicately, but he hears the undertone of _after you let me get a word in_ , "that you had come from dropping Doc at the vet."

He doesn't say anything.

"I didn't ask because, well, you don't like when I ask you questions."

That's not fair. It's not a fair thing to say about him.

It's not … untrue, not these days, but still.

"But obviously something at the vet got you all … hot and bothered, and Finn's cute but I wouldn't have thought he's your type."

"You think Finn's cute?" he asks lightly, trying to change the subject.

"Don't try to change the subject."

He sighs. "What do you want from me, Addison?"

"I want you to have the decency not to use your wife of eleven years as a substitute for your _girlfriend_ or your … right hand."

He winces a little at her implication. "What about using your husband's best friend as a substitute, Addison? Where's the decency in that?"

"That can't be your comeback to everything, Derek."

"Wasn't that your offer?" It's so dark he doesn't even have to close his eyes against the memory: Addison in salmon-pink scrubs, her hair pinned up loosely, smiling down at him. Somehow predatory and vulnerable all at once, a combination that shouldn't have surprised him. _The way I see it, we can deal with … us in one of three ways._ One of the options: _… you forgive me … but you can still bring it up to use against me whenever we argue._

He repeats that to her now.

"That was my offer, but it was conditional … on your forgiving me."

"Addison."

"I thought you had. Forgiven me, I mean. For Mark. But I think I was wrong."

"Addison."

"You haven't forgiven me, Derek. And I know I, um, I told you more about it, earlier. Well, a little more, and – "

"Now is not the time to talk about this."

"Derek!" Her voice rises with frustration. "We are _stuck_ in an … elevator prison with no lights and I can't even stand up. How is this _not_ the time to talk? How much more do you need to be trapped to actually talk to me?"

"I'm talking to you," he says defensively. "I've been talking to you."

"You're jealous of Meredith and the vet," she says, not giving him a moment to gather himself before she continues. "And I'm jealous of Meredith and you."

"Addison. There's nothing – "

"She was the one you wanted in the shower that night."

He's glad it's dark because his cheeks are flushing at the memory. He's back in the shower, gripping her slick wet arms to turn her away from him, taking handfuls of her long soaked hair and pressing her against the door. She was startled by his intensity, he recalls, but she was more than willing – eager, even grateful.

"You could have said no, that night," he points out now. "You didn't seem to mind."

"I didn't. I was pretty desperate by that point, Derek, I would've let you call me Dr. Grey if it meant I got some decent sex."

"Excuse me," he says, annoyed. "It takes two people to have decent sex … and two to have boring sex, too."

"Don't remind me."

"You got your decent sex," he reminds her. "But you're still not satisfied."

"Of course I'm still not satisfied, Derek, you can't even look at me."

"Well … it's dark."

He hears from the change in her breathing that she's fighting a laugh, even if it's an annoyed one.

"You knew what I meant," she says.

He did.

"If you were really over Meredith," she continues, "then you wouldn't care if she was dating the vet."

He doesn't respond.

"Derek."

"I stayed with you, Addison," he says quietly. "I'm here, in the dark, with you and what's left of your ankle. What more do you want?"

"I want you to _care_." She sighs as she says it. "I want you to care the way I care that you haven't really given up Meredith."

"Addison – "

She talks over him. "I just told you, in this elevator, that I didn't give Mark up after you went to Seattle."

"Yes. I heard you."

"But you don't care."

"I don't care," he repeats, incredulous. "Because I don't want to hear about your … relationship … with Mark, Addison? Your affair. Your – whatever it was, that you want to _tell_ me about, I don't want to hear about it."

"You don't want to think about it," she corrects.

Now he's half confused, half angry. "Why would I – "

"I think about you and Meredith. I have to. I have to try to figure out what's going on between you because you won't tell me, you didn't even admit until now that you're not over her, so I don't have a choice, Derek, I have to think about it, but you don't – "

"I don't have to _think about it_ because I saw it with my own eyes!" He raises his voice, cutting her off, feeling her startle underneath his palms.

"Derek – "

Her tone is pre-conciliatory, but he doesn't care right now.

"No, go on, Addion. Please. Tell me about how much harder it is for you because you have to _think_ about it, because you didn't get a front-row seat to the show. That you didn't get to see us naked together, naked and – "

"Stop it," she cuts him off, her voice shaking.

" _You_ stop it!" he snaps, shoving his hair away in a gesture of frustration, but he doesn't realize in time that the movement turns his whole body, jarring her injured ankle. He feels it roll off his lap and hears her cry of pain at the same time.

Cursing inwardly, he grabs for her ankle before it can strike another surface.

"Sorry – I'm sorry," he says hastily. He is; he didn't mean to hurt her, not physically. He'd never need to resort to that, it's so easy for both of them – so natural – to wound with words.

She's breathing unevenly, and guilt sours his stomach. "I didn't mean to do that." With her foot settled back on his lap, he rests both hands on her shin once more as if to reassure her he's done moving.

"Addison," he says when she doesn't respond. "Are you okay?"

It's so dark.

"Yeah, I'm okay." Her voice sounds shaky though, high and thin.

"Okay." He's not sure how he realizes this, the displacement of air or something else, but her hand is moving toward his and he takes hold of it. Hers feels oddly small within his.

"You sure?" he asks, doubtfully.

"I'm fine."

She's gripping his hand tightly though; he squeezes back.

She's in obvious pain, he must have jarred something. Inwardly, he curses once more. Her breathing is fast and uneven, more so in the dark of this small, confined space, and for the first time he's worried she might panic.

"Try to slow your breathing down," he advises her quietly.

She doesn't respond.

"Breathe, Addison," he reminds her. "Take a deep breath."

"We need to get out of here," she whispers.

"They're working on it, Addie. Can you just take a deep – "

"I know how to breathe," she snaps, her voice much louder now. "And I know they're working on it but when are they going to stop working and actually get us _out_ of here?"

"I don't know. They're working on it. Just calm down, please."

"Calm down?" she repeats, her voice rising again. "Don't tell me to calm down!"

"All right." He lowers his voice, trying to get her to lower hers. "Hey … it's a little small in here for a flipout, Addie."

He holds his breath for a moment – in his experience he could either be defusing or lighting a match.

"I thought you loved small spaces," she says, seeming to deflate a little against him. "How much bigger is the trailer than this elevator, really?"

"Back to complaining about the trailer." He keeps his tone light. "I'll tell you what, why don't you just make a list of everything you hate in Seattle, and I can read it, and – "

" – and never have to talk to me again," she finishes quietly. "Is that what you want?"

"No, Addison. That's not what I want."

There's more to say, more to the half-hints she keeps dangling about Mark, the ones he'd rather not pursue right now.

But it's not the end of the conversation. It's not even the end of the elevator journey, and Addison doesn't push it.

She's quiet for long moments.

"We're trying," she says finally, her voice small.

"We're trying," he agrees.

..

"How's the ankle?"

"If we ever get out of here, I guess I'll find out."

"We're going to get out of here." He frowns. "Don't be so dramatic."

"Dramatic? We're trapped in an elevator that can't have unlimited oxygen – "

" – aren't you a scientist?" he asks, interrupting; she continues as if he didn't.

" – with no light and no intercom. Excuse me for thinking we're going to die here."

"You're right, that's not dramatic at all."

She's silent for a moment.

"You said yourself you've been trying to get me to talk to you," Derek says quietly. "Maybe the elevator overheard."

"Now it's a sentient elevator?"

"Stranger things have happened than a sentient elevator."

She's quiet, seeming to consider this. "Yeah … I guess they have."

He feels her leg tensing against his; in lieu of responding, he wedges a hand underneath the cramping muscle again and she sighs a little as he works through the knot.

"I'm sure they'll get us out of here soon," he says after a moment.

"Based on what?"

"Instinct."

"Yeah?"

She sounds almost amused.

"Derek?"

"Hm?"

"Don't, uh, don't stop," she says, sounding a little self-conscious. "The – massage thing, I mean. It's helping."

"Okay." He moves his hands so he can return to working the tight muscle of her calf. Based on the tension, her ankle must be throbbing painfully. Her breathing starts to sound a little more relaxed as he works.

"I could get used to this," she says, sounding almost sleepy, a few moments later.

"To this – dark and allegedly airless elevator? The one you called a prison? You could get used to it?"

"I've gotten used to stranger things than that," she says.

He moves his thumbs, feeling some of the tension in her calf releasing.

"Yeah … I guess you have," he acknowledges.

"That's all I'm saying."

..

"Hello?"

They both jump at the sound, Derek quickly putting out a hand to steady Addison's injured leg as the intercom crackles back to life.

"Hello!" Addison calls back desperately. "We're here!"

"They know we're here," Derek reminds her.

"Maybe they thought we died in here, since it's been _hours._ "

"It hasn't – "

"We're going to get you folks out of there," the voice calls. "Everyone all right?"

"We're fine," Addison says loudly before Derek can respond.

"Great, just bear with us, we have emergency services and the technician here, and – "

"It's moving again!" Addison cries, and Derek grips her leg again as the elevator jolts. This time, the jolt is followed by one slick, smooth upward heave and then the elevator grunts to a stop.

"Wait," Derek says when Addison starts to shift her weight.

The lights flicker back on. He closes his eyes automatically, protectively, against the unexpected glare; presumably, she does the same thing.

The next sound is unmistakable, even if he hadn't just achieved better hearing from his temporary blindness:

The elevator doors.

 _Opening._

A gush of fresh, Lysol-scented hospital air wafts in and he opens his eyes.

To see a ring of concerned faces outside the now-open elevator doors.

Preston Burke.

Bailey.

A handful of interns.

They all start clamoring.

Addison tenses next to him; she doesn't like to be seen with a hair out of place, much less on the floor of an elevator with both hair and legs akimbo. But he can't get both of them off the ground, not with her ankle injured like this.

"It's fine," he says, raising his voice to be heard.

The crowd goes silent.

"Minor shoe incident," Derek says lightly. "We'll get out of here if someone can give me a hand with – not you, Karev."

Mercifully, Bailey shoos him away.

"Someone get a chair," Bailey calls.

"I don't need a chair," Addison hisses to Derek. "Miranda – "

"Just hang on, ortho's coming," Bailey says.

Derek looks from Bailey to Addison, who in the newly bright elevator is slumped against the elevator wall, her good leg tucked under her and her injured one still in Derek's lap. He can't move until she does, but she can't move until –

This is going to get complicated.

Bailey exchanges a meaningful look with him; she sees it too. She and Derek start strategizing how to get Addison off the floor, going back and forth, while Addison's breathing, next to him, growing increasingly huffy.

"So if Dr. Burke… but wait, then we'd need O'Malley to … "

Addison looks mortified now. "Excuse me, I don't need _four people_ to lift me. How heavy do you think I am?"

Derek ignores her. "O'Malley, can you just – there, thank you."

Moving her is a process.

Addison has stopped complaining about the process of moving her, at least, her ankle uncomfortable enough to keep her quiet.

Finally, she's standing on her good leg, her weight supported between O'Malley and Preston Burke. Derek staggers to his feet, ignoring the hand offered. His legs are painfully asleep, roaring back to life with an intensity that takes his breath away, but he's fine.

Addison, meanwhile, seems to be having trouble standing.

"Did you injure the other side too?" Burke asks.

"No. I think it's just – asleep, or – " she winces and then her good leg wobbles. Derek sees it as if in slow motion, but before he can get to her, Burke has swept a hand under her thighs and lifted her in his arms. She makes a surprised sound as she leaves the ground.

"Are you okay?" Derek asks, moving toward her.

She doesn't respond, apparently distracted. Burke is apologizing in his borderline-unctuous way for jarring her when he lifted her, his tone warm; Addison is blushing a little, seemingly embarrassed by her position. Derek stifles an eye roll.

"No, I appreciate it," she's saying to Burke, who smiles at her. "Thank you, Preston."

"A chair's on its way," Burke tells her. "Unless you prefer the old-fashioned mode of travel."

Addison looks amused. "I usually prefer more … newfangled ways of getting around," she says, smiling back at him. "But in this case, I'd be – "

"Chair's here," Derek announces loudly.

Burke and Addison both turn to him. He's tapping one tingling foot as he points toward the waiting wheelchair. Then he replaces the orderly who pushed it, holding the chair steady while Burke lowers Addison into the seat.

"Thank you," she says, looking up at him.

"Yes, thank you," Derek adds pointedly, rotating the chair and angling it toward Bailey. "Did you say Ortho – "

"Ortho's here. Hi." It's Dr. Torres; true to the ortho stereotype, she's tall and strong and looks like it would have been easy enough for her to be the one who lifted Addison. Rather darkly he wishes she'd gotten here a little earlier; at least she wouldn't have seemed to … enjoy the process quite so much.

"Derek!"

He looks up at Meredith's voice. She's a little out of breath, in scrubs now as she jogs up to them. "Addison," she adds, looking at the wheelchair with surprise.

Bailey clears her throat.

"Dr. Shepherd," Meredith corrects herself quickly. "Are you okay? I just heard what happened."

"We're fine," Derek says. "Addison, uh, Addison sprained her ankle."

"So you say," Torres interrupts, "but I haven't had a chance to look at it yet. Grey, if you don't mind, I – "

"You were really in there since I left?" Meredith asks, not seeming to hear the other doctor.

"We _really_ were," Addison answers from the wheelchair before Derek can.

Meredith glances from one of them to the other. "I'm glad you're okay," she says quietly.

"Yes, we're all very, very glad," Bailey interrupts. "If we can finish up all this … gladness, Dr. Torres can actually take a look at Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd's injury and make us even gladder."

"Sorry," Meredith says quickly.

Derek looks from her to Addison.

"I can't believe you were stuck," Meredith says again. "What were you doing in there all this time?"

Then she flushes, seeming to realize the error of the question, or perhaps not realizing she said it out loud. "I just meant – "

"Talking," Derek says hastily, before this can get even more awkward.

"About the weather," Addison supplies archly.

"Mm. The weather in Seattle," Derek agrees. "Yes, Addison h – "

" – _likes_ the weather in Seattle," his wife interrupts.

"Since when?" he turns to her.

"Since I realized it keeps the skin hydrated."

"Then what do you need all those – products for?" he asks. "Can I get some of my counter space back if the humidity outside is enough?"

"Actually, you – "

"Can I look at that ankle, or do you just want to wait until the gangrene sets in?"

Addison shudders, and Derek turns to glare at Torres. Meredith is still there, looking uncertainly from one of them to the other. The ortho resident has an excellent reputation, he knows this, but her blunt delivery isn't exactly his favorite.

She raises her eyebrows at his expression. "Sorry, did you not get enough time to … talk … in the elevator?"

They've been _talking_ for fifteen – no, sixteen – years. As if an hour in a stalled elevator would somehow seem like a lot.

"Thank you, Dr. Torres," Addison says politely.

"Callie," the resident corrects, smiling at her – looking a lot friendlier than she did to Derek, but he's not exactly in a position to analyze whatever girl-thing is happening between them, nor does he want to.

"All right. Let's see what's going on here – is this a belt?" Torres asks, eyes widening, as she crouches down in front of Addison.

"It's a makeshift bandage." Derek says, defensive.

"You makeshifted it, huh?" Torres sits back on her heels. "You're a regular boy scout."

"He's an eagle scout," Addison says, smirking a little when Derek shoots her a look.

"I should have known. Not bad, Shepherd." Torres unwraps it carefully, examining the ankle, which looks red and angry. "It's a sprain," Torres announces after a moment. "But it's less swollen than I would have expected after being stuck in the elevator for so long without a chance to elevate it."

"It was elevated," Derek mutters.

"How did you – "

"He's an eagle scout," Addison repeats, looking amused now.

Derek glances at Meredith out of the corner of his eye. She looks vaguely uncomfortable.

"Grey – do you have patients?" Bailey asks, and Meredith turns, flushing, before making a hasty exit.

"Makeshift bandage, makeshift elevation?" Torres says, studying Derek as if seeing him for the first time. "Not bad, for a brain surgeon."

"Excuse me," he says, not really offended.

"I just mean – you have good instincts," Torres tells him, sounding actually, reluctantly impressed.

At this, Addison glances up at Derek briefly, giving him an almost shy smile, before she turns to Torres.

"He has his moments," she says.

* * *

 _I enjoyed writing that, and I really hope you enjoyed reading it. Couple of things. You know I love to ramble in FTS author's notes. I initially envisioned FTS to be like 1500 words of story and some author's notes, and, well, you see what happened. My point is ... god, this part of the season is so incredibly sad. Addison with tears in her eyes in the scrub room trying to get Derek to tell her what's going on between him and Meredith, and Addison's scene with Meredith when she asks if she's sleeping with Derek, are two of my favorite ways to torture myself on youtube when my eyes are dry and need some moistening. I will at some point, I'm sure, flip those too, because I'm Addek trash and I love to weep. This is an episode where Addison is everything, scene to scene: uncertain, devastated, hurt, angry, regretful. I wanted to capture at least a little of that._

 _BUT I also want to say - people have been asking about **The Climbing Way** and I am embarrassed it's taken this long to update. I am planning to update it THIS MONTH. There's another chapter and an epilogue and I have been planning them since 2011 and it's my own block, Addek-perfectionism, and nostalgia that's getting in the way. But it's coming. So please keep letting me know what you want to see, what you want to read, because that helps me direct my time and my energies and my tears. All that is to say - I would love to hear what you think of this flip, so I hope you'll review and let me know!_

 _Thank you, all of you, for reading!_


	34. Fresh Starts

Hola, Script Flippers! Thank you for all the response to the last flip. I keep thinking this series is done and there's nothing left to say and then I remember that I am ridiculous and also that you guys leave me great prompts and ALSO that I am procrastinating my work, so yeah, 12K words of season 3 flip seemed about right. This is a slightly different, even unorthodox flip. Let me explain. It's inspired in part by **simbagirl** 's request for an injured Derek with Addison the only one to care for him, an old request for Addison moving into the trailer (the provenance of which I can't remember), and my own obsession with the incredibly sad post-divorce Addek logistics. This flip has a very basic, behind the scenes premise: Addison needs to get all her stuff from the trailer and, like many an ex-partner, chooses to do so when her ex is out of town. And Derek, as we know, went camping in the seventh episode of the third season. Why? Derek said it himself: "You know, I thought if I just got away for a while, I'd get some answers. A fresh start." To which the Chief replied, "Fresh starts ... no such thing."

That inspired this flip. What if Derek leaves his fresh-start camping trip early, the same weekend Addison is taking advantage of the empty trailer to pack up what's left of her married life?

And finally, this story is the first flip to contain an **optional epilogue.** That's right. You can stop reading at the **end** and get the whole flip, with its usual one-extended scene, no big closure, atmosphere ... or you can read ahead to the optional epilogue in which it's sort of possible I let my fluff flag fly. It's up to you, really.

I hope you enjoy the flip, with or without the epilogue!

* * *

 **Fresh Starts**  
 _(3x07, Where the Boys Are)_

* * *

He parks his car as a light rain falls, pausing in the jeep for a moment with one hand resting on the gearshift. A part of him is relieved the camping trip ended early. He didn't relish driving off the mountain in the dark, but there are benefits, too. There's the rain, and the fact that although he loves camping, he wouldn't necessarily have chosen _that_ particular group to share his tent.

And then there's the text from Mark he received as soon as his phone pinged back into range: _don't worry, Meredith doesn't seem too lonely without you._

He stared at it until even the most patient of Pacific Northwest drivers couldn't keep from honking at him and then he shifted back into gear so jerkily it was like he was back in high school trying to learn to drive on Lizzie's ancient hand-me-down VW.

To make matters worse, Mark is in the passenger seat in those memories, alternately giving him advice – at five months older, he was a permit holder first and took his driving test before Derek – mocking his attempts at shifting gears, and describing his latest crushes in the kind of detail that probably would have made Lizzie snatch back the keys in disgust.

" _You're a lucky guy – ease up on the clutch, will you? – but you're a lucky guy, Derek."_

 _Derek tries to focus on the clutch, the stick, and the gas pedal all at once._

" _How do you figure that?"_

 _Mark leans back in the cracked leather seat and grins at him. "You picked the best driving teacher in the state."_

 _Derek rolls his eyes. "I wasn't aware I had a choice."_

" _True. Who else is going to teach you – Lizzie? She drives like an old woman."_

" _She's only five years older than us," Derek reminds him._

" _Yeah … and she's not half bad, either," Mark says thoughtfully, then curses when the car almost stalls out. "Would you stop riding the clutch?"_

" _Then stop being so – " He's not sure how to finish the sentence. So … what? So Mark? Mark is always Mark, all the time, and it's not like anyone else is volunteering to teach Derek to drive. Plus, Mark is a pretty good driver … at least according to Mark._

" _So." Mark leans back, sounding satisfied. "Where were we? Oh, right – Karen McGuinness. Did I tell you she was in my car the other night? And I wasn't teaching her to drive, either."_

" _You don't say," Derek mutters._

" _She's pretty fun, not as uptight as she looks, and when she – Jesus, Shepherd, have you ever seen a rotary before?" he barks, alarmed._

" _I braked," he protests, heart thumping a little._

" _You have to give way." Mark frowns at him like Derek isn't taking this seriously enough. "You're not supposed to get flattened by a tractor-trailer, not while you're still a virgin."_

 _Derek rests his head on the steering wheel for a moment – he has plenty of time, he's third in the right-of-way line. "Is it too late for me to hire another driving teacher?" he asks._

" _Oh, yeah." Mark has a satisfied look on his face when Derek glances over. "Way too late. You're stuck with me for good, Derek. You lucky son-of-a-bitch."_

That was Derek, then and now – lucky.

He considers this as he eases onto the rain-spattered grass, flicking off the headlights and sitting in the darkness for a moment, thinking. There's no conceivable reason for Mark to text him, to taunt him about Meredith – for attention? Mark never did like being ignored, and Derek's been doing exactly that since the other man arrived uninvited in Seattle.

He won't dignify the text with a response. He's home, he'll have peace and quiet and a scotch and wash the camping trip off him. The trailer is his now – his and his alone, with no one to criticize the temperature of the water or the size of the shower or the distance between any one point and the other.

Just like it was supposed to be, from the beginning.

By himself, no one bother him, no one wanting him to do anything. On his own time.

" _Derek, let me ask you this – why did you buy all this land just to live in a trailer?"_

 _He doesn't respond. He knows it will bother her, but he doesn't feel like making the effort, not this morning. He's tired._

" _Derek."_

 _He looks up, annoyed. Addison is leaning against the counter, a cup of coffee in her hands, with that … expectant expression on her face. She wants something from him. She's waiting for something. Addison is always waiting for something._

" _I need to get to the hospital," he says, avoiding her gaze._

" _It's just a question." She actually sounds hurt, which is ridiculous._

 _Also ridiculous: the idea that anything from could be 'just' a question._

 _But he drains the last of his coffee, determined not to let her spoil what remains of a decent morning mood. He turns to finish getting ready – and promptly trips, losing his balance and just barely managing to catch himself on the side of the bed._

" _Derek! Are you okay?"_

" _I'm fine." He brushes her hand away, taking a step back. She lifts her hands in the air like she's giving up, but she looks concerned, or – no, it's guilty, because he sees now that what he tripped over was a pair of her ridiculous shoes._

 _Of course it was._

 _He glares at her and she turns away, crouching down to pick up the shoes._

 _But she stands up with guns blazing. "There's no room in here, Derek! It's a fire hazard."_

" _There was plenty of room before you got here," he reminds her, not caring when her cheeks flush at his words._

" _Well, I'm here now," she says. "So if you could make some room for my things – "_

" _If I make room for your things, then what? Then I'll stop almost breaking my neck on your shoes?"_

" _You didn't almost break your neck."_

" _Addison." He massages the back of the aforementioned neck._

" _What do you expect me to do with my shoes?" she asks petulantly, propping her hands on her hips with a strappy high-heeled pump dangling from each fist._

 _I don't care, that's what he wants to say._

" _Just put them somewhere I don't have to see them," he says instead, and shuts himself in the bathroom when she starts to bleat about how there's no closet room. He takes his time getting ready, ignoring her, and by the time he emerges, the shoes are gone and so is she._

It's a great trailer.

And there's plenty of room for its sole occupant.

Confident in this, he unloads his things from the jeep.

At the trailer's door, he fishes in the pocket of his jacket for the keys. They jingle with comforting familiarity. At least here, he knows what to expect.

At least here, nothing can surprise him.

He turns the lock, opens the door, and something hits him, hard, before he can even take a breath or comprehend what's happening.

Pain rockets through his skull; it's pitch dark, he's too stunned to reach for the lights, as he's struck again. It's not a hand, it's something harder and bigger and his arms are too full to fight back as he's struck again, this time hard enough that he loses his balance and falls to the floor.

 _This is it,_ all those years living in Manhattan and not so much as a mugging, and now he's going to be assaulted in his own trailer in the middle of the peaceful woods?

He's trying to scramble to his feet when he's kicked around the ribs – _fuck_ , that hurt, the point digging into his flesh, and he curses out loud, breaking the silence that until now has just been heavy breathing.

The hitting stops.

The breathing stops.

"… _Derek?"_ asks a small, confused voice just before everything goes even darker.

* * *

..

 _Earlier That Day_

..

* * *

She dawdles that morning, drawing out her daily routine of makeup and spending longer than necessary straightening her hair in front of the lighted mirrors. Breakfast nauseates her for the most part, but she orders room service anyway and then lingers over the toast and fruit she didn't even want.

Finally, there are no more excuses.

She has to leave the room.

The trailer isn't going to pack itself, after all.

 _Our marriage is over._

 _Yeah, I guess it is._

But there are still things to do – papers, which they've signed now, all the hassle of logistics and legalities that are mostly hers and not Derek's, and then there's the stuff.

There's so much … stuff.

Eleven years of marital stuff. Sixteen years of couple stuff.

Two houses of stuff.

But she's not going to think about the houses yet.

First things first, one foot in front of the other, _keep busy_ so it's all about the trailer. Clearing out the things she moved into the trailer, if you can call what she did _moving in._

She packed two suitcases when she left, the same sleek but spacious carryall and trolley she's been using for years – the ones she brought with her from New York. But that didn't account for the additional things she had shipped when she thought she was staying in Seattle.

(It never occurred to her, then, that she might stay in Seattle but not be married to Derek. A lot of things never occurred to her, then.)

So here goes … packing the trailer.

Of course she's waited until Derek left town, the potential awkwardness of having him there while she puttered around his trailer to remove every last piece of evidence he was ever married to her enough to make her silently scream.

And she waited because – here's the thing.

She's never packed up alone.

 _Packed up_ isn't _packed_ , which is what you do for an out-of-state conference or a weekend at the beach or a surprise romantic getaway to celebrate your second fellowship … theoretically speaking. _Packed up_ is what you do when something is finished. _Packed up_ means you're leaving, really leaving, with all the bittersweet nothings that entails.

And she's never done it alone.

When she left for college, packing up everything she could from her parents' house in the hopes she wouldn't have to come back too often, there were staff to help her. She flitted around holding up this pair of tight jeans, that angora sweater, arranging her makeup in its little leather train case, while people her parents paid to stay cheerful made short work of her belongings and told her how much she'd love college.

(It didn't occur to her, then, that this was not normal. It occurred to her, later, that the _not occurring_ was the issue. But that was later.)

In college, _packed up_ was an annual event, and it was with Savvy by her side. They'd wait until after finals and then stay up all night to finish packing, drinking cheap wine from the corner store, laughing and singing along to the radio as they grew tipsier and eventually starting to toss things into boxes at random. Somewhere she has a faded polaroid of Savvy inside a tall moving box intended for clothing, her face screwed up with helpless laughter, fisting the neck of a green bottle in one hand.

In medical school … she met Derek. She never moved anywhere, after that, without him.

Not in the permanent sense.

Not in the _packed up_ sense.

Seattle doesn't count. That was running, that was chasing, that was two suitcases and _you forgive me, we go back to New York and move on with our lives like adults._

Seattle definitely doesn't count. That's not what _packed up_ is.

" _Addie … what are you doing?"_

" _Packing," she says hastily, wiping her eyes before she turns around from the closet. There are half-filled boxes surrounding her feet; suitcases splayed open on the floor; stacks of notebooks and papers on her desk labeled by year and ready to be stored._

 _Derek, who still has final exam-scruff on his face and a pillow crease on one cheek – last night was their first full night of sleep in weeks – looks concerned, crossing the room to her._

" _What's wrong?"_

" _Nothing. I'm okay."_

 _But she lets him wrap his arms around her anyway, liking the solid feel of him through the thin material of his tee shirt. It's a little damp with perspiration – he's been carrying boxes down the stairs – and he smells good: clean but somehow … vigorous._

" _Addie." He gives her a squeeze. "Tell me what's wrong."_

 _He guides her over to her bed, which has been stripped of the bedclothes, and she actually lets him sit her down on the bare mattress – which is either a sign of how distracted she is or how much she trusts him, because bare mattresses … are disgusting._

" _I'm just tired," she says._

 _He takes her hand. "I'm tired too," he says. "But I'm excited."_

" _Yeah?" She raises her eyes to look at his. They're very soft. She could get lost in those eyes – already has, in fact, at least according to Savvy, who has gone from hopelessly-romantic college roommate to endlessly logical law student, putting any suitor through rigorous testing before she'll even go on the first date._

 _Her relationship with Derek? Logic has nothing to do with it._

 _They're scientists, sure, but every spark between them is a tested hypothesis of what they do to each other and she doesn't need anything more to see the chemical reactions he causes just by looking at her. She wouldn't be moving in with him if not._

" _I'm excited too," she whispers._

" _Our own place just for us," he says, playing with the fingers of her left hand, "which means – "_

" – _our own bed just for us." She smiles at him, though her eyes are still a little wet. "No more dorm beds we can't even move around in."_

 _He raises his eyebrows. "Oh, we managed," he says, and she can't help but laugh at his expression. "Our own kitchen just for us," he adds._

" _I'll cook you dinner." She folds their fingers together._

" _You will?"_

" _No." She grins at him. "But I'll use our own-phone-just-for-us to order takeout."_

" _Now that sounds like a plan."_

 _He leans in and kisses her and she closes her eyes, enjoying the sensations and all the promises of what's to come._

" _Addie, tell me the truth," he says as he draws back. "Were you crying because you're not sure you can fit all your shoes in your suitcase?"_

" _Very funny." She swats him playfully; he catches her hand before she make contact and plants another kiss on her palm._

" _I wasn't crying," she adds, then pauses when he tilts his head, looking at her. He doesn't look judgmental, just … concerned. He doesn't even mind when she cries, Derek. He's so good to her. "I was crying a little," she amends, "but just because – packing is hard."_

" _Packing is hard," he agrees, "but the good thing about moving in with your boyfriend is that you'll never have to pack alone."_

" _Yeah?" She links her arms around his neck._

" _Yeah." He kisses her one more time, then draws back. "And another good thing about moving in with your boyfriend – "_

" – _is that his roommate doesn't have to listen to the two of you going at it every five seconds anymore."_

 _They jump apart, Addison swiping at her mouth and Derek glaring, to see Mark – who's been helping them carry boxes down the stairs – standing in the doorway, looking very amused. He holds up both hands innocently._

" _Hey, it's perfectly natural," Mark continues. "I'd just rather not share a wall with … it."_

" _Thank you," Derek says sarcastically. He stands up from the bed and offers Addison his hand. "Ready to finish packing up?"_

 _She nods. "Thank you," she adds to Mark, not sarcastically, since it's pretty nice of him to help lug all these boxes._

" _Don't mention it," he says. "What are friends for?"_

 _Addison waits until Mark has picked up a box of her textbooks and headed out the door before she gives Derek one more hug. "I'm excited," she says. "I'm excited to move in with you."_

" _Not as excited as I am," he counters, and she laughs when he presses her to the wall for a long kiss that only breaks apart when Mark comes back and rolls his eyes with exaggerated exasperation._

She spends ten unnecessary minutes talking with the concierge in the lobby about restaurants, lingering at his desk while he makes pleasant conversation. He remembers something she said last week about oysters and she lets herself be flattered for a brief humiliating second before she remembers the man is paid to make her feel good about herself.

And then there's nothing else to do but go.

In what might be the first act of mercy since she arrived in Seattle, she's paged to the hospital before she's halfway to the trailer. With some measure of relief, and a little guilt for the accident that caused the emergency patient, she spends distracting hours delivering a premature infant who is bravely taking in oxygen in the NICU by the time she showers off her work.

There aren't many hours of daylight left as she heads to the trailer for her second try.

She coaches herself, as she drives: _you're going to pack up the trailer alone, by yourself, and that's fine. You can pack alone._

Really, what other choice did she have?

It's not like she knows anyone else who could help her. She flirted with asking Mark, very briefly, while knowing that any flirtation with Mark is risky even when it's about logistics. True to form, he responded to her query about what he was doing over the weekend with a smirk and a brief invasion of her personal space that reminded her how all this trouble started in the first place.

So she didn't ask Mark.

For a moment now she imagines who else she could have asked.

Alex Karev – the kid was thrilled to be off her service, and it amuses her to think how horrified he'd be if he gave him this new and rather creative assignment.

Richard Webber – he has a bad back and he's the one who encouraged her to move out here in the first place and she's not sure which one of those makes him a less appealing candidate, at this point.

Okay, she's being sexist. There's Callie Torres, the orthopedic surgeon who, true to the cliché, looks like she could pack up several mid-sized hotels without breaking a sweat. But the point is – there's no one in Seattle Addison could stomach seeing what she needs to do, now, to finish her divorce.

Which is part of why she didn't hire someone.

She is, despite all her best efforts, her mother's daughter, with no task too personal or specific or messy to hire someone to do in her place.

Except the idea of paying someone to pack up the trailer, to see the remnants of her sad failure at marital reconciliation … no. That won't do at all.

Not to mention that she isn't crazy about driving out to the middle of the woods with a bunch of strange men. She barely likes doing it by herself.

But she does it by herself anyway.

She arrives at the trailer on sheer muscle memory and caffeine to see that, to her surprise, it's actually not raining, for once.

She still has a key. That was what Derek said, when they discussed it, _you still have a key, right?_ Just _a key_ , not _your key._ She almost asked him how many others he'd handed out since prom. She fumbles with the lock in the dark, but she manages.

Inside, she pockets _a key_ and thinks about how strange it is that it looks just like the way she left it … and completely different, too.

The bedcover is the same, which makes her wrinkle her nose a bit. It smells the same: something pine-y and outdoors, plus that warm-spicy scent she's associated with Derek for a decade and a half, and – she tilts her head a bit – a lingering note of something else she can't quite identify.

She scans the place first – no black lace panties in sight, at least. Derek is off camping, but he's managed to pack without flinging everything around like he used to. At least she taught him something over the years. Too bad it won't be what he remembers.

So this is what she does: she takes stock. She considers the cabinets and the overhead and underbed storage. She considers the weatherproof tubs on the porch that can be moved without assembly.

And then she drags her two empty suitcases in, hoping she won't need to use the empty containers the concierge discreetly had someone place in her car. She locks the door behind her as she hears, outside, the rain start up again.

Of course.

But her task is simple, right?

Just _packing up._

Just scanning the trailer where she spent six – no, seven – months hoping her husband would decide to look her in the eyes and might even remember that he used to love her.

Just checking for any lingering remains of her presence to make sure it's wiped clean.

Just making sure Derek won't have to remember her at all.

… that thought alone is enough to send her to the liquor cabinet (which here in the trailer is just a cabinet, full stop, but the point is the liquor itself).

The drink helps, a little.

The first one reminds her of Derek, though, and she doesn't want to remember when his kisses tasted of scotch. She doesn't want to remember anything.

The second drink helps a little more.

She eases down on the couch, trying to be happy about the fact that she'll never have to live in this awful little shoebox again.

She's lucky, really.

Isn't she?

And if she's crying, a little, it must be the third scotch.

… that's the one that makes her tired.

Very tired.

Suddenly too tired to do anything, certainly too tired to _pack up._

She's just going to close her eyes for a moment. The scotch is – okay, a little stronger than she remembered, but she has the place to herself to pack and there's nothing wrong with a little catnap.

It's quiet here.

When she lived here with Derek, the isolation that her husband craved felt dangerous to her. She was never someone who enjoyed being away from everyone and everything. Her childhood contained enough loneliness for a lifetimes: as an adult, she reveled in surrounding herself with other people, whether or at work or in the rhythms of an always-busy city.

She avoided coming back to the trailer first, at the beginning, but eventually realized that with their work schedules – and Derek's tendency to avoid her – she couldn't always be the second one to arrive.

She adjusted, after a fashion, to the silence and the crickets and the far off animal calls sometimes that made her feel like she was living in someone else's life.

The last thing she thinks as she dozes off is that she forgot how the rain drumming the outside of the trailer is actually sort of … nice. Peaceful.

But she wakes up to anything _but_ peace.

First of all, it's dark.

Pitch dark.

She must have slept longer than she thought and she didn't need the interior lights when she arrived. She can't see anything.

But she can hear.

She hears the _clump, clump_ of heavy footfalls outside.

Terror surges through her.

Terror – and a little tipsiness, too.

As she panics, her heartbeat drowning out the rest of the trailer, the scraping sound of metal on metal leaves her shaking.

 _Someone's here._

Then the sound of someone jiggling the door. Pulling the knob.

Her knees are weak with fear.

Moving through the darkness on autopilot, she grasps blindly at her surroundings. _A weapon._ She needs a weapon. She needs something better than a fucking fishing pole and living in the trailer was bad enough, but dying here?

Dying here would be simply unacceptable.

That's enough to give her newfound strength and when her hand brushes along the flashlight Derek keeps for emergencies, she grasps it gratefully. It's big and heavy and she's going to go out fighting.

Scarcely able to breathe, squeezing her eyes shut even though it's too dark to see anything, she waits until the door bursts open and then, with no other thought but _nothing to lose_ , charges forward and smacks the flashlight toward the intruder.

It's too chaotic to think anything except rushing, roaring adrenaline; she feels the flashlight make heavy contact with what she hopes was his head and based on the groan of pain it probably was. Galvanized, she hits him again and feels the thump of his body fall. _Oh my god,_ it's actually working? She hears him start to move, though and kicks out, on instinct.

The man – of course it's a man – grunts out a curse and then she freezes, the flashlight dropping from her hands with a combination of shock and horror.

She knows that voice.

She knows that _shape_ , even in the dark, _oh god,_ how did she miss it, because without the cloud of terror and the need to fight for her life, she knows _him._

" … Derek?" she whispers, horrified.

..

"Derek! Derek, are you okay?"

He has some sense of her leaning over him – displacement of air over his aching body – then hears her scramble to her feet. She must have hit the switch because the trailer is flooded with light and he squints as pain rips through his head.

"Derek!"

..

Oh god. _Oh god oh god oh god_ what has she done?

In the light, there's no escaping it.

Her ex-husband is curled in a self-protective ball on the floor, flanked by a canvas duffel, a rolled sleeping bag … and the flashlight she hit him with.

"Derek – I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, are you hurt?" She kneels down again, trying to assess the damage, and he's not too injured to push her away, at least.

"Addison," he croaks, blinking into the light. She can already see a livid bruise forming on his face and his disoriented expression makes her anxious. "What the _hell?_ "

"I'm sorry! I didn't know it was you, Derek, I thought someone was breaking in!" She wrings her hands, panic making her feel hysterical … and scotch not helping, particularly.

"Breaking … in," he repeats after a moment. His voice is slow and a little scratchy.

Did she concuss him?

"Derek. Are you hurt? Your head?"

He ignores her questions.

"Addison … what are you doing here?"

"You're not supposed to be here," she says miserably. "You're supposed to be camping."

"I was … camping," he says, and his voice still sounds slow and thick like his mouth hurts. "I came back."

She reaches out instinctively to touch his face, then winces on his behalf and doesn't quite make contact.

"You were gone the whole time – I mean, you were supposed to be – and I thought you were gone another night," she hears herself rambling, anxiety speeding up her words. "You were supposed to be gone another night, Derek, and I came to pack my things."

"To pack your – "

He stops talking, maybe because of pain, or maybe remembering what they discussed.

" _Derek?"_

 _He doesn't look up._

" _Derek."_

" _What."_

 _No question mark. Like that. Okay, fine. He's made it clear what he thinks of her, after finding out about Mark, and she deserves it. She takes a deep breath._

 _All she's going to do is ask him about her things. That's it. Divorced people have … logistics, and that's fine._

" _Are you ever going to talk to me again?"_

 _Great. Nice work, Addie, that's not what she was going to say. Embarrassed at showing her cards, she shifts on her heels._

 _He actually lifts his head though, and glances at her._

 _For about a second._

" _What do you want, Addison?" he asks. He manages a question mark this time, but his voice is otherwise expressionless, like he's answering an intern's annoyingly obvious queries._

 _(A normal intern, like the ones in New York, not a … Meredith intern. She's well aware that his tone with Meredith is anything but annoyed.)_

" _I have … things."_

 _Great. Another excellent, articulate comment. She forces herself on track before he can get any more annoyed … or indifferent._

" _I still have things at the trailer," she manages. "Some of my things."_

 _He nods shortly._

" _So, um, I guess I want to figure out a time I can get them."_

 _He blinks, maybe even looking a little surprised. "Whenever you want," he says shortly._

 _Now she's the one who's surprised._

 _Whenever she wants._

 _Whenever she wants?_

 _What she 'wants' – is very different from what's happening right now._

 _But she needs him to understand being saying it might keep her from breaking the rule that is she is never, ever going to cry over him again … to understand that she needs a time he won't be there._

 _Because forget crying: packing up the trailer while Derek is there is just going to flat-out kill her. The way he's been treating her lately – uninterested, distracted, she can take that, and even the anger that attended her disclosure about Mark. That's not the worst part. The worst part is the cheer, the smiles, the excitement he clearly feels about being rid of her._

 _That's what she can't handle._

 _That happiness, that excitement, while she packs up the trailer that, humiliatingly, she had to beg to move into in the first place? While telling herself it would all be worth it in the end?_

 _She's not sure she could survive that._

 _She can feel tears starting. She's felt stripped raw from the moment she stuck her hand in the pocket of her husband's tux jacket, readying it for dry cleaning – and her head has been spinning since their morning in the divorce mediator's office._

 _But she's not going to cry._

" _That's very generous of you, Derek," she says, knowing her tone sounds bitchy but needing it to stave off the tears. "But it's not actually helpful. The trailer isn't really built for two people, so I need to know when you're not going to be there – maybe your next fishing trip?"_

 _Now he definitely looks little surprised. He blinks again. "Actually, your timing is perfect," he says. "I'm going camping."_

 _It stings even though it shouldn't. Of course Meredith goes camping with him._

" _Okay." She lifts her chin. "I'll, uh, I'll take care of it while you're away."_

 _He nods, already looking distracted again, then turns back._

" _Addison?"_

 _She can't help a little flutter of hope, even if it's too late – nothing more than the last dying pulses of a pacemaker in a patient who's already gone._

" _Yes?"_

" _You still have a key, right?"_

 _Oh. Of course._

 _She nods in what she hopes is a businesslike fashion. "I'll leave it in the trailer when I'm finished," she says._

 _Unspoken: and then he'll be finished with her, forever._

"… _thanks," she says, lamely._

 _And then she walks away before he can._

"My things," she repeats now, nervously. "You knew I was packing my things this weekend. We talked about it. Derek? You remember that?"

"Stop … talking," he mutters, a grimace of pain on his face, and she does.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," she whispers anyway.

"Which time?" he asks, his tone sarcastic even though he still sounds pained, and for a moment her stomach turns over thinking he's revisiting her many marital sins.

Then she realizes he's talking about her blows tonight on his entrance to the trailer.

"Either time." She pauses. "Can I look at your head?"

"No."

She sighs, shifting to sit cross-legged. "Derek – no, don't sit up yet, I want to examine – _Derek._ " She presses on his shoulder and he doesn't seem to be able to push back, which concerns her.

"Stop it," he says, annoyed, when she tries to examine him.

"Derek. I just want to see if – _you_ stop it," she adds, when he tries to push her away again, realizing she sounds about twelve years old. She takes advantage of his weakened state to restrain the arm that's trying to bat her off.

"Addison … "

"Let me look at your head," she repeats.

"It's not pregnant."

"Very funny. I'm a doctor," she reminds him, "and I was married to a neurosurgeon for eleven years, and I think I can manage a simple exam so can you please just hold still?"

He does, though she's fairly certain it's his exhaustion and not any reaction to her credentials that does it. She's relieved, running her fingers over his skull and then carefully tracing the bruising at his temple. He flinches when she touches the edges of the lump where she hit him, and she hears him gasp quietly with pain.

"I'm sorry," she says again, miserably. "Derek, I swear I wasn't trying to – "

" – kill me?" he shakes his head grimly, then winces at what must be the pressure.

"I don't think you're concussed," she says, her voice shaking a little, "but you seemed a little disoriented before, so I think you should – "

"My ex-wife tried to kill me. Anyone would be disoriented."

"I didn't try to – never mind."

She's not going to argue with him. And he's not going to – stay lying down, apparently. She gives in.

"Here." She offers him a hand to help him sit up, grasping his forearm when he doesn't push her away. He groans as she tries to haul him upright and she stops immediately. "What's wrong? What hurts?"

"What hurts?" he repeats. "What doesn't hurt?"

He sounds more like himself now, but very grim. His breathing is shallow, though, as if it's painful.

"You could have punctured a – " he stops talking, then points toward her feet; her gaze works downward too. "Those damn shoes," he mutters, except he doesn't say _damn._

"I'm sorry!" She tries to figure out where he's hurt, then sees he's holding his ribs.

 _Fuck._ She forgot about that in the melee of his head injuries.

His ribs. The thing is, that wasn't where she was planning to kick him, but it was dark and considering the results of the non-break-in, now she's glad she didn't hit her intended target.

"I'm sorry. Really." She pauses. "I'll get you some ice. Do you want some ice? Derek?"

He's holding his head. "Can you _please_ stop talking," he mutters.

"Sorry," she whispers. "Just, um, can I get you anything?"

"A drink," he manages finally.

"I don't know if that's a good idea. You might have a concussion, you might have – "

" _Addison_."

She stops talking. "What?"

"My ex-wife just tried to kill me."

"I didn't know it was you."

"My ex-wife just tried to kill a person who happened to be me," he amends with exaggerated patience, "and probably broke a rib in the process. Do you know how painful broken ribs are?"

That's not very nice. She already feels bad enough. "I wasn't going for your ribs," she says defensively. "I was going for your … not ribs."

"Great." He attempts to roll his eyes, winces in pain, then brushes her off when she approaches with concern.

"Derek –"

"A drink," he repeats. "I need a drink."

"We're in the woods," she reminds him, "we're in the woods, and I'm too drunk to drive, and you're too – whatever you are – to drive and we're in the _woods_ – "

"You already said that."

"We're in the woods," she says again, with as much dignity as she can manage, "so I don't think you should drink because if you have a head injury then – Derek, what are you doing?"

"Getting myself a drink," he says, trying to heave himself to his feet, "since you refuse to help me."

"Fine!" She pushes at his shoulders until he sits down again on the floor and then goes to the cabinet – and finds no scotch, since it's at the couch. She can't see Derek's face with her back turned, but if his injured head can see _her_ then he's certainly judging.

He takes a long swallow of the scotch when she brings it, then hands her back the glass, wincing.

She looks at his bruised face, wincing equally on his behalf. He's still sitting on the floor, leaning some of his weight on his rolled sleeping bag.

Now what?

..

Now what?

She's still standing over him in the same pointed-toe shoes that cracked a rib, and his head is thick and his mind a little slurry but he's not concussed.

He's a brain surgeon and he doesn't need a homicidal obstetrician to diagnose him.

Besides, he has medicine. The traditional kind. The Victorian kind.

He holds out his hand for another sip; she crouches down again, squatting over those damn weapon shoes, and holds the glass for him.

 _Great._ So his dignity is less intact than" his skull.

"Do you think you can stand?" she asks quietly.

He doesn't want to consider what would happen if the answer is _no._

Turns out the answer is _after a fashion_ , and Addison does at least half the work, fretting in typically dramatic fashion that isn't helping his headache at all but also gripping his arms tightly enough that he's fairly certain he won't fall.

She wraps an arm around him, withdrawing it when he can't help groaning at the pressure on his ribs.

"I'm sorry!" She sounds like she's about to cry. Of course she does.

"I'm fine," he mutters. "Just help me to the – "

Bed. That's where she's guiding him.

"... I'm not that drunk," he says.

She looks somewhere between amused and embarrassed. "I'm just trying to find somewhere for you to sit," she frets, "because you need something soft around your ribs and there are pillows you can – "

"Addison." He shakes his head, which feels like a battered basketball at this point. "I was just – forget it."

She helps him sit down on the bed, fussing with the pillows and leaning over him to prop him up, her long hair falling into his face.

"Sorry," she says again, trying to gather it out of the way and then failing when she needs both hands to help him sit up.

There's something he hasn't had to deal with in a while: her hair all over the place, in his face and in his house. Except she never fully left: there were still stray strands here or there like she's left crumbs behind. She left more than half her things behind, clothes and books and miscellaneous items but he could look past those. It was the long hairs – the one caught in the shower drain, the one under the pillow when he changed the sheets – that had the power to stop him in his tracks.

Then she's fussing over him again, making him track her finger, and then leaning over the bed looking almost shy for some reason.

"Can I just – can I look at your ribs?"

She sounds so deeply uncomfortable that he could almost laugh, except for the constant pain coming from said ribs.

He tries to adjust his position and then bumps his wrist on something hard.

"Sorry!" Addison cries again and he sees it's the handle of her oversized suitcase, sitting mostly empty on the bed. "I was, um, I was packing," she says, unnecessarily.

He doesn't respond, closing his eyes briefly while she scurries around removing the suitcase and smoothing the covers before she returns to stand over him.

"Your ribs?" she asks again, flushing a little when he glares at her.

He feels her hands at the hem of his thermal shirt.

"Do you mind?"

"I just want to check." Her tone is defensive, even a little bold. "We were married for eleven years, Derek. You don't have anything I haven't seen."

" _What's the big deal, Derek? We've been married for eleven years, but I need a formal invitation to move in with my own husband?"_

 _He ignores her baiting._

 _He doesn't like the insinuation that things are just supposed to go back to normal now … whatever 'normal' is, for them. Yes, he can admit things have been changing since Thanksgiving, but they're not even halfway through December and she has him cornered outside his car in the hospital parking lot._

" _Derek."_

" _Addison." He sighs. "What do you want from me?"_

" _I want a key!" she bursts out, then takes a step closer when a passing couple turns to look at them. "I want to live with you, Derek, and not just … visit you."_

 _He's uncomfortable, but not sure what to say._

" _Please." Her voice is softer now, and he knows she's manipulating him but he's having trouble resisting anyway. She rests a leather-gloved hand on the door of the jeep, as if she's trying to trap him. He could sidestep her to get away, but he doesn't._

" _I'm tired," he says._

" _So am I." She moves her arm, turns half away and when she turns back there are tears in her eyes. She's really pulling out the whole arsenal tonight. "Derek … I just want to move on with our lives. I want to live with my husband. Is that so much to ask?"_

 _Of course it is, that's what he should say. Everything she asks for is a lot. She moves across the country and set fire to his new life here and every time he tries to escape the smoke for a whiff of clean air she's there, dancing around his attempts to escape, pinning him with her eyes._

" _Derek," she says softly._

" _I heard you." He looks past her, at the lit-up lobby of the hospital._

" _And?" She sounds different now, teasing – almost flirtatious, and her mouth quirks. The light is low out here, streetlamps and the cast-off glow from the hospital, but he can still see her. "What did you decide?"_

" _I decided I need to go home," he says, and jingles the keys in his hand meaningfully._

 _The disappointment on her face is hard to take._

 _It should please him – it should give him satisfaction, to withhold from her what she's trying to get._

 _Truthfully, giving her a key would make both their lives easier, would keep her from stalking him through the hospitals on evenings she's finished before him, or haunting the gallery during his later surgeries. It would give her the power to go back to the trailer whenever she wanted._

 _But that would mean she'd be moving in. Well and truly moving in. Out of the hotel, and into the trailer. No training wheels, no protection._

 _He opens the door, then turns back to see her still watching him, her eyes downcast._

" _Are you coming?"_

 _She looks up, her expression hopefully enough to make his stomach turn over. Silently, she nods. She buckles her seatbelt without looking at him and grips the straps of the bag on her lap as they drive._

 _She doesn't speak again until the roads have turned rural and the dense thickets of trees are casting shadows into the car._

" _About that key," she says, and he's grateful it's too dark for her to see his expression._

"Fine," he says.

She skims her hands under his shirt without responding, apparently deciding to take advantage of his consent while she can. Her fingers are cold and he flinches first at the temperature, brushing her off when she expresses concern, and then at the pressure. She's gentle, clinical, but he winces anyway.

"It's not broken." Relief is evident in her voice. "Bruised, yes." She pauses. "I really am sorry."

"Forget it."

She opens her mouth like she's going to speak, then closes it again.

"Let me get you some ice," she says.

She does, and he can hear her muttering about how he should have more supplies in the freezer – he has several rainbow trout in there, which she manages not to bitch about, so he supposes that's something.

She returns with two different clean dishtowels wrapped around what he supposes are bags of ice and sets one carefully against his ribs. "Can you just – " she touches his arm and he rests a hand over the ice as she directs him.

"Okay." She's leaning over him closely now, her fingers brushing the painful part of the side of his head once more. From her grimace, it looks about as good as it feels. She leans closer, her long hair falling into his face again and when he reaches up to push it out of the way, the ice bag falls off his ribs.

"Careful." She frowns, then takes some time getting him set up again, fussing with pillows and positioning until he's cradling the ice against his ribs once more. She chews her lower lip for a moment, concentrating on something, and then seems to figure it out, toeing out of her potentially fatal shoes and then climbing onto the bed with some difficulty. She's wearing a skirt because of course she is, because who wouldn't pack up a trailer wearing a tight skirt and four-inch knives on her feet? With a surprising amount of dignity for a person whose skirt is currently hiked up to allow her to straddle her way across the bed, she manages to get to his other side. The less convenient side of the bed.

The one he made her sleep on, when she lived here.

" _But that's my side," she says, her mouth falling into something too close to a pout. He doesn't like seeing that hurt expression, as if he's somehow at fault. "That's always been my side."_

" _Things change," is all he can come up with in response._

 _She turns away, ostensibly to prepare for bed, but when she returns in slippery silk pajamas there's disappointment all over her expressive face._

 _Did she think he would move for her? That he should sleep on the inconvenient far side of the bed to make her life easier?_

 _He's already let her move in._

 _He's already given her a key._

 _He's already done enough._

" _Are you getting in?" he asks pointedly._

 _When she doesn't respond – passive aggressive to the end, his wife – he decides not to play her game and just gets into bed himself, drawing up the covers and fluffing the pillows with exaggerated contentment._

" _Good night," he says with cool politeness when she still doesn't move, and flicks out the light._

 _He knows she's still standing there, in the darkness, and he can hear her breathing._

 _But he won't give in. He closes his eyes._

" _Do you mind?" she asks finally; he supposes she can tell he's not actually sleeping._

" _Not at all."_

 _He doesn't move._

" _Derek."_

" _What?"_

 _She sighs with melodramatic exasperation._

" _Can you at least turn the light on?"_

 _She sounds petulant, but he does it, pausing a little for effect. Her long hair hides her face as she climbs past him into bed; he hears the whisper of silk but can't see her expression._

 _He turns the light out before he has to see anything more._

 _It takes him a while to fall asleep that night, and he can tell she's not sleeping either, but neither of them speaks._

"This should help," she says quietly.

Carefully, she holds the ice against his face.

"It's cold," he mutters.

It's very cold.

Addison is saying something over his head which he certainly hopes is sympathetic considering she's the one who almost beheaded him. But she doesn't remove the ice.

He shifts a little, trying to get comfortable, but he's already stiffening up from the blow to his ribs and the fall and he doubles back, reaching a hand out to steady himself. The hand makes contact with something that's not cold at all. It's warm, and soft – and shouldn't definitely not be in his hand.

Muttering an apology, he jerks his hand back, which serves to strain his ribs yet again, and then Addison is scolding him and moving the ice and between her hands and his injuries it's more complicated than the intricate choreography she forced him to learn for their wedding. (Okay, fine, he went along with it, but only to please her. He liked pleasing her in those days, and she always made it worth it.)

"You need to rest," she scolds him. "You're injured."

He almost laughs at the absurdity, but knows it would hurt his ribs. "I'm only injured because you tried to kill me," he reminds her, his voice muffled by the ice.

"I wasn't trying to kill you," she says yet again.

"And yet … you almost succeeded."

There's silence for a moment.

"If you can manage to tell me what a terrible person I am, then you must be all recovered from your injuries."

He shifts a little, wincing again. "If you can manage to try to make me feel guilty for almost decapitating me, then _you_ must be all recovered from _my_ injuries," he counters.

She's quiet again for long moments where he's fairly certain he's getting hypothermic.

"Derek?" She sounds anxious again, and she moves the ice from his face, warm air blasting his skin and making him wince again. He's shivering – why is he shivering?

"You're shivering," she says nervously, as if she's read his mind. "You can – let's take a break from the ice."

He does that, and then she gets another blanket and he wants to tell her to go away and leave him along but he's a pragmatist and he might as well be alone in the woods (with someone who almost decapitated him, but that's another issue) so he lets her.

She's propped up against the headboard now, her legs drawn up, as she holds the ice to his ribcage, letting him warm his hands on the blanket.

"Comfortable?" he asks her sarcastically.

She flinches a little. "No," she says after a moment. "Not really."

He doesn't want to feel guilty.

He has no reason to feel guilty.

 _She's_ the one who should feel guilty. Whether he startled her or not, she's the one who decided to clock him with his own flashlight.

"... I'm sorry," he says quietly, "that I startled you. When I opened the door."

He watches her eyes widen and then close up again. "Oh," she says. "That's what you're sorry for?"

He closes his eyes. "Addison."

"Forget it."

"We're divorced," he reminds her. "We're divorced, and you came here to pack your things."

"We're divorced, and I came here to pack my things, and you weren't supposed to come back," she says stubbornly, "not while I was still here."

"Is that why you attacked me?"

"I attacked you because I thought you were a murderer!"

He considers this. "You did a decent job," he admits.

"… thanks." She's quiet for a moment. "Derek."

"Hm?"

"I'm not sure if you should go to sleep."

He groans a little. "Addison … I slept in a tent with three other men last night and I bonded with Preston Burke. Preston _Burke._ Not sleeping is not an option."

She hesitates. "I don't think you should be alone right now."

"I'm not," he reminds her.

"Oh." She pauses. "Well, I was going to – but I guess I shouldn't drive, actually."

He frowns. "How much scotch did you drink?"

"Enough."

"Enough to try to kill me," he mutters.

"Dutch courage." She sits up a little straighter. "And I didn't – "

" – try to kill me, I know." He's feeling a bit better, enough to look around the trailer. "You didn't get much packing done, either."

"No, well," and she looks down at her hands, seemingly distracted. "It was – it's harder than you might think."

He's not sure what to say to that.

"You didn't pack," she blurts and then looks embarrassed when he glances at her.

"What do you mean?"

"When you left New York." She's focused on her lap again, not meeting his eyes. "You didn't pack."

Oh.

It's true.

He did come back, the next day, tossed a couple of things into a bag before he drove across the country. But he didn't _pack_ pack. He left that to his sisters, who volunteered to send his things. With Addison's help, that's what Nancy told him when she sent the boxes, like he was supposed to be grateful for it. Like folding his clothes in her obsessive way made up for screwing his best friend.

He's not sure how to respond.

"We still have a lot of things in the brownstone," she whispers, surprising him.

"I thought you were … taking care of that."

"I am. I mean, I will." She looks at him. "I hired someone. But I have to pack this up alone." She presses her lips together as if she's said too much.

"What, the things in the trailer?"

She nods.

Oh. He hadn't really thought of that. It's not _that_ much, but then again, Addison moved into the trailer, at her insistence, with only two suitcases. Nancy, doing double packing duty, sent a half a dozen oversized boxes later on.

"Do you, um, do you want me to call someone else?" she asks quietly.

"To pack?"

"No." She sounds like she's smiling, a little. "To help you. Um, to keep you company, or … ."

He shakes his head, wincing a little. The logistics of that seem complicated. Addison is too tipsy to drive, apparently, and he's injured, and who would he call who would want to come over and, what, spend time with both of them?

(Actually, he can think of only one person who would want to do that, and it's the last person he'd want here.)

"It's fine," he mutters.

"I should – well, I want you to keep the ice on," she's starting to ramble, "and you should sleep if you really need to, but I might wake you up to check, but I won't sleep here, don't worry. I can sleep on the couch, and you can – "

"Addison."

She stops talking. "What?" she asks uncertainly.

"Just – " he sighs. He gives up. "Just sleep here," he mutters. "It's fine."

..

 _Fine_ isn't exactly how she'd describe it.

Confusing, maybe.

Strange.

A little painful, digging up pajamas from one of the boxes she'd started to pack and helping Derek out of his camping clothes – he's not exactly the cleanest she's seen him, but she doesn't complain.

Truthfully, she's not sure what's going on.

She's not that drunk anymore.

He's still injured.

And they're definitely still divorced.

But the trailer is small, and warm, and while he flinches at her intermittent applications of ice, she can tell it's helping.

They don't talk anymore; they don't need to. She lets muscle memory guide her around the trailer – not that much has changed – and tries not to think about how much wine she'll need to forget this night when she climbs onto the bed next to him.

"I'm just staying to make sure you're okay," she says out loud, not sure which of them she thinks needs convincing.

Derek says nothing.

She's not sure, right now, if either one of them is okay.

But she's prepared to wait it out.

Under the light blanket, resting against a pillow she hopes with every fiber of her being hasn't been defiled by anyone else, she props up on one elbow to watch her ex-husband. His bruised face hurts her in a way she can't quite describe. He's infuriated her many times over the last few months. She's wanted to scream at him, even to hit him – but hyperbolically, that's all, and she knows that now because seeing the marks on him that she left makes her want to cry.

She almost says it: _I never meant to hurt you._

She almost says more: _We hurt each other so easily._

She wishes she could say: _I always wanted to fix it but I didn't know how._

 _If I could have, I would have._

She swallows hard in the darkness.

"Derek."

She says his name again when he doesn't respond.

"What?" he asks finally, sounding only half awake.

"I still have to pack," she reminds him. "I have to pack up my things."

"We can pack up in the morning," he mumbles. "We have time."

"We?" she repeats, dumbly, but he doesn't respond. He's breathing deeply and evenly … asleep.

 _We_ , he said.

He doesn't respond, but at some time in the night he must cross the demarcation between them, because when she opens her eyes there's a weight over her ribs that she recognizes as his arm.

She just breathes, very quietly, his familiar scent and the warmth of him closer than she thought he'd ever be again. Her head feels a little heavy, her tongue thick, full of scotch and questionable decisions. She knows that taste.

She should wake him.

She should check on his head injury.

She should, at the least, move his arm … because they're divorced, and divorced people don't sleep in the same bed, not like this.

She should wake him. Right now.

But she doesn't; not yet. There's a light rain falling outside, soft and peaceful. Like the weather, too, thinks that they still have time.

* * *

 **end**

* * *

 _Thank you for reading! Feel free to end here, or to continue below to the optional epilogue._

* * *

 _ **..  
EPILOGUE  
..**_

* * *

Derek's eyes widen when he opens the door to see a slumped figure in the window seat, long red hair dangling down her back, staring glumly out the window.

"What happened to packing?" he asks, concerned.

"It didn't fit." She turns sad blue eyes up to his. "I tried," she adds, lest he think she didn't give it a shot, and he nods with understanding.

"Ah." He eases down next to her. "Too much to pack?"

"And my suitcase is too small." She turns to face him, tears in her eyes. "Maybe I should just stay home."

He holds out his arms automatically and she launches herself forward. She doesn't cry much, just hugs him tightly and then, once she sounds calmer, leans back and looks up at him. "I do want to go," she says.

"It's okay." He moves some of her long hair away from her face. "I know you do. Hey … packing is hard. That's why you don't have to do it all by yourself."

"I know." She smiles a little, shakily.

"I found your cleats!" calls a triumphant voice before he can respond. "they were in the – Gracie?"

Addison hurries to their sides, her tone quickly turning to concern. "What's wrong, sweetie?"

"I don't think I can fit everything," Grace tells her mother sadly.

Derek and Addison exchange a look.

"Oh, you'd be surprised what can fit in a suitcase." Addison settles on the window seat too, wrapping an arm around their daughter's shoulders. "Plus, your dad and I are expert packers."

"You are?"

"Sure. You've seen us pack."

Grace tilts her head, long hair falling to the side. "Is that why we have to sit on your suitcases sometimes? And when Dad packs the car he says – "

"Basically," Addison interrupts her hastily, shooting Derek an amused look. "The point is, sometimes you just have to make a little room for the important things. Like these." She holds up their daughter's lucky cleats.

"Thank you for finding them." Grace beams, then a thoughtful expression crosses her face. "Can you help me?"

"Of course."

Derek watches mother and daughter huddle over the open suitcase on Grace's bed, strategizing.

"Gracie." Addison is removing items from the suitcase. "Do you really need to bring nine pairs of shoes to soccer camp?"

"Yes, I do." Grace props her hands on her hips. "They're all different!"

Derek and Addison exchange a look as Grace identifies each pair like an old friend – her _lucky cleats_ , her _old cleats_ , her _sneakers that get wet_ , her _sneakers that don't get wet_ , her _water shoes_ , her _other water shoes._

He's amused in spite of himself. Grace has eschewed anything too dainty from the time she could make her own choices, preferring to fulfill the prediction of her name with dodges on the soccer field and heroic plays in lacrosse. In her rough and tumble nature, her willingness to fall five times on the field just to get up six, she's always reminded him a bit of Amy.

But while the nature of her accessories doesn't exactly scream _Addison_ , on sheer numbers alone her wardrobe, not to mention her shoe collection, is all her mother. Derek has a hard time identify which little tee shirt or hooded sweatshirt goes with which sport, but Grace has been categorizing like a champ since she could speak.

Derek notes, as he peers into the suitcase, that while Addison is having a hard time keeping a straight face as she advises Grace on which shoes could possibly be cut from the starting lineup, their daughter has neatly folded and rolled each tiny item of sportswear in what looks like color coordinated fashion.

It's funny, how much of a child's nature seems inborn. Grace's packing style is pretty much the opposite of what he would expect from –

"Gracie! You _forgot_!" Their younger daughter tears into the bedroom like a tornado, thrusting a stuffed koala in her sister's direction. "You said you'd take Archer with you!"

"I know. I will."

"He needs to go in your suitcase. He needs to go in _now_ ," Birdie amends.

Grace glances at her parents for support as Addison, who can't seem to help smiling at the sisterly antics, steps in.

"Let's get everything else packed and then Archer can have a nice cuddly bed for the ride." She strokes their younger daughter's dark curls.

"Okay," Birdie sighs as if it's an enormous sacrifice.

Derek gestures her toward him and she comes eagerly, clambering up on him and flashing a gap-toothed grin. He holds her on his lap and listens to her chatter in part because she's just plain adorable and in part to give Addison and Grace a chance to finish packing before their little tornado can get her hands into the suitcase.

He wasn't lying, before: packing can be hard.

" _Addie … what's wrong?"_

 _She's kneeling up on the bed when he returns from an emergency surgery, with the cabinets open above her head; facing away from him, her expression shouldn't be apparent, but it is. Addison's never limited her expressive qualities to just her face, so he shouldn't be surprised and he was right: when she turns around, there are tears in her eyes._

" _How am I supposed to do this?" she asks._

" _Do what?" He crosses the limited space between them and, when she doesn't move, climbs up onto the bed next to her. "Pack?" he suggests._

" _No. Well, yes." She closes the cabinets and turns around, gesturing expansively. "This, Derek! How am I supposed to do this?"_

" _This, meaning … ?"_

" _This, meaning us," she sighs. "Us, Derek. You and me."_

 _Oh. That._

 _Tentatively, he takes one of her hands. "Us … seems easier than packing," he says. "At least the way you pack."_

 _She laughs a little, then frowns. "Don't be funny."_

" _Sorry."_

" _No, you're not." She takes back her hand and props it on her hip. "Derek … have you stopped to think that we're crazy? That what we're doing is crazy?"_

 _"Why would I do that?"_

 _"Because it is." She pauses. "According to everyone at the hospital, anyway. I apparently did some kind of ... black magic."_

 _He's trying not to laugh._ " _So y_ _ou concussed me," he says, "and then hypnotized me?"_

" _I heard one of the interns saying that in the hallway," she sniffles._

" _But it's only half true," he consoles her, and she does that laugh-cry thing again. "Stop it, Derek."_

" _Now what am I doing?"_

" _Being – charming. Don't be charming."_

" _Okay, I won't be charming. But that might be hard."_

 _She sniffles again. "You managed when I first moved out here."_

 _"True." He pauses._ " _I guess I needed to be hit in the head."_

 _She looks a little happier now. "And kicked in the – "_

" _You didn't kick me there," he reminds her hastily, "and don't get any ideas."_

" _I've already packed all my shoes," she sighs, "so I couldn't even I wanted to. Which I don't," she adds when he frowns at her._

" _It's not that much to pack." He looks around the trailer. "We're not taking everything." He pauses. "Thank you," he adds._

" _Me," she repeats, sounding confused. "Thank me for what?"_

" _For letting me keep the trailer."_

 _Her eyes widen. "I had a choice?"_

 _He shakes his head, amused._

" _I didn't know that. Sell it, Derek."_

" _Addison."_

" _Burn it. Let's blow it up, and then we can scorch the grass where – "_

" _Okay, you've made your point." He frowns at her. "I thought you'd softened on the trailer."_

"… _maybe a little," she admits. "I'll probably like it better if I don't have to see it every day."_

" _Is that how you feel about me?"_

 _He's teasing, but her expression grows serious. "No." She moves across the bed on her knees, which might look silly on another woman but somehow she manages it with grace. "It's the opposite, in fact."_

 _He lets her kiss him and then she lets him kiss her back and then she pushes him away, hands on his shoulders. "Derek."_

" _Hm?" He's brushing her long hair away from her neck so he can kiss her again, and she gets distracted for a moment before she stops him again. "Honey … we need to pack. We're not being very efficient," she adds._

" _True." He tilts his head, considering this. "Then again, if you were an efficient packer … we wouldn't be here right now at all."_

 _She presses her lips together and he can tell she's remembering. Imagining what would have happened if she'd packed up the trailer with more efficiency all those months ago, so that she was finished and gone by the time he got back from his camping trip._

 _How very different everything would be._

" _Derek?"_

 _He looks at her. Her eyes are hazy with memory and with something else, too. The opposite of memory: hope for the future._

" _Let's take a break from packing," she suggests, her voice husky and he grins in response._

" _Yeah? What did you have in mind?"_

" _Why don't I show you?" Her tone is innocent, her expression anything but, as she pulls him down on top of her between piles of neatly folded clothes._

 _They don't get much packing done that night._

Eventually, though, they packed everything they needed.

And more – they didn't know, then, what they were carrying with them. The extra piece that ended up fitting perfectly. Well, what Addison was carrying in particular, though it was both of their faults. Not that _fault_ is something that describes their daughter. More like a perfect, if undeserved, present.

He smiles down at Birdie now; this one … their little one … was a surprise. Which is something of an understatement: Addison had to tell him four times before he believed her and when he expressed shock that she could still get pregnant – Grace was already five years old at that point – she threatened without humor to go back to the trailer, find the pointed-toe shoe that cracked his ribs six years ago, and geld him once and for all.

Naming their surprise second child for Addison's mother was Addison's idea. She confessed to him, one third trimester night not long before she delivered, when she was sleepless and Gracie was snoring quietly on Derek's lap, that her mother would have been horrified to have a child born out of wedlock named for her.

He needed no more convincing than that for Beatrice, who was born with a full head of wispy dark hair and an ear-piercing shriek that she would put to good use over the years. _Beatrice_ was too formal for this particular child; Grace was the one who coined _Birdie_ for the squeaks of excitement the baby would make upon seeing her older sister.

Somehow, it just fit.

And as for the wedlock?

Well. He's done the calculations, and next year will be the thirtieth since the day he and Addison met. They spent eleven – almost twelve – of those years married.

And save some months here and there that add up to less than a year – they've spent every single one together.

Why fix what isn't broken, is where they left it, which is why they both wear rings and the few people who even remembered she was ever just _Montgomery_ folded back to _Montgomery-Shepherd_ and then _Shepherd_ without a hitch … but they stopped short of exchanging a fresh set of vows. Carefully crafted legal papers ensure the protection of their and their children's rights, so there never seemed a need to repeat their first wedding. As far as they're concerned? The old ones never disappeared.

The people who knew them in the Before – they know, and they get it. And the people who've met them since? They meet the Shepherds, and they assume … and that's good enough. The rest of it is just for them.

"Done!"

Grace is beaming, and Addison looks pretty pleased with herself, too. Indeed, the suitcase is packed … without too many things outside of it, either.

Only one thing is missing.

The zip.

He watches Grace's little face fall and she and her mother attempt to zip the case. For all of Addison's gifts at packing far too many things in far too small spaces – it's not quite working.

"I can help!"

Birdie scrambles to her feet and, without being asked, climbs on top of her sister's bed – not without a slightly guilty, slightly triumphant look on her face at this achievement – and then perches on top of the overstuffed case.

"Now you can zip it, see?"

Grace looks like she's trying not to laugh, but with both parents' help – Derek joining them to keep Birdie from falling off while Addison helps their older daughter wrestle with the zipper – the suitcase is closed.

Birdie, pleased, demands high fives from the assorted Shepherds, and then pulls on her sister's hand. "Take me with you to camp," she suggests.

Grace looks torn. "I can't. It's only for big kids."

Birdie looks offended at the insinuation. "I know how to play soccer." She looks at her parents for confirmation, both of whom nod with varying levels of authenticity. Birdie, who has been known to cheer volubly for the other side at her sister's games out of sheer confusion rather than any sort of rivalry, seems slightly mollified.

"I'll play with you when I get back," Grace offers.

Birdie's lower lip trembles. Addison exchanges a look with Derek, seeming prepared to intervene.

"And I'll bring you a present."

Birdie brightens. "A seashell?"

"It's not the beach." Grace considers this, their pensive older child, twirling a lock of her long hair. "A rock," she suggests. "I'll find you a cool rock."

Her little sister looks pleased with this. "Not too big," she cautions, "'cause your suitcase is already really heavy."

Her parents laugh and Birdie looks pleased with herself, then concerned. "But, Gracie … if you find a _really_ cool rock, and it's big, I still want it," she bargains.

Grace nods, then glances at her parents with a little concern. "What if it doesn't fit?" she asks.

"Don't worry." Derek smiles at both his daughters, their mother reaching out to squeeze his hand. "We can always make more room."

* * *

 **end (again)**

* * *

 _Thank you so much for reading! I hope you'll review and let me know what you think. As always, I enjoy prompts either for flips or other stories, and I'm always open to hearing which WIPs are on the top of your update lists. (Not counting QPQ, which will be fresh tomorrow.)_

 _I enjoyed writing this - I like the idea of Derek and Addison doing the absolute reverse of a fresh start: mixing it up to actually non-start back where they should have been in the first place. And I admittedly love writing them far enough in the future that the amazing pictures of Kate and Patrick's joint Cigna campaign a couple years back serve as visual inspiration._

 _I hope everyone is having a great weekend and I would love to hear from you!_


	35. Everything I Think I Know

First of all, thank you for your great response to the last flip. Second of all, I didn't plan to flip a script today, but you can't toss a freshly-caught rainbow trout in a trailer without hitting an Addekversary, and when I found out today was the 14th anniversary of Addison's grand entrance at the end of Grey's Season 1 - I had to flip. This flip is slightly unorthodox because it's not quite an episode. It's a flip to the script of an off-screen episode we never saw, aka the night Derek caught Mark and Addison together. Obviously, that night changed the course of all their lives (they are real people, damn it!) and there would be no Grey's if Derek hadn't left New York. But Derek wouldn't have left New York without the Maddison affair, and the Maddison affair might not have happened if Addek could have worked on their marriage pre-That Night. What if the script were something small - some little shake-them-out-it way to cut off the affair? I started realizing that wouldn't be enough - if you've read either of my one-shots "Lucky" or "Tell Him," you know that the depressing flip side to Derek not walking in is the Maddison affair limping alone while the Addek marriage quietly dies inside.

Yeah. It's bleak.

So not only does the affair need not to happen, but Addison and Derek need to somehow realize their marriage is in trouble. Of course, if such a flip had happened, it would have changed episode 1.09, Addison's infamous entrance, so . . . that's what makes this a special kind of flip. Bear with me, and I hope it will be rewarding.

Title comes from Derek's speech in episode 2.01, "Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head," when he tells Meredith about discovering the affair ( " . . . everything I think I know just shifts," right before he discovers them).

With one more moment to take in the fact that **1.09 aired fourteen years ago (fourteen!) on May 22, 2005** , I hope you enjoy this flip.

* * *

 **Everything I Think I Know**  
 _(1.09, "Who's Zoomin' Who?")_

* * *

He engages the emergency brake out of sheer habit, muscle memory, though their paved strip of a driveway – just barely large enough to accommodate the jeep he doesn't really need – has no incline. Maybe it's wishful thinking. Parking the car feels like one long, exhausted exhale, the cap to a tiring day: he shuts the driver's side door firmly like the period at the end of a sentence.

Most days end the same way.

Making his way to the front door, he notices the same dark sedan he saw turn the corner making another slow loop, presumably looking for a nonexistent spot. He's grateful he doesn't have to think about alternate side of the street parking when he's already half dead on his feet.

There, that's something: the next time he gives in to the urge to gripe about the excessive price of Manhattan real estate, he'll remind himself that convenience is invaluable to a busy surgeon. He'll tell his wife – not that she drives, of course, but it's a little ammunition the next time she's accusing him of not appreciating their life. Complaining that he complains too much: it's circular, impossible, but very much his reality eleven years into marriage.

Every day is the same.

Every night is the same.

Every fight is the same.

A light is starting to fall as he digs his keys out of his coat pocket with the same three movements as always, and unlocks the front door. Point, turn, pocket the keys again so he won't have to look for them tomorrow morning. Just like every morning.

Inside the front hall, he pauses.

The thought enters his mind, unbidden: _something's different._

Nothing's different. Everything's the same.

But there it is again: _something's different._

He should take off his coat, he should pour himself a drink, he should make a halfhearted attempt to see if Addison is home before he settles in his office.

That's what he should do: every night is the same.

But he doesn't.

He just stands there.

Sans drink, still in his coat.

His whole night: muscle memory.

This moment, now: he's frozen.

When he moves, it's not because he knows what's causing this unease, and it's not because he knows why he's moving, or even where he's going.

Still, he ascends the stairs as if he's been summoned. One foot in front of the other, resting a hand on the banister like a much older man. Like his father would be, had he not left his memories when he was still young. There's no reason for this journey to exhaust him.

It's not until he's halfway across the landing, still moving slowly as if in a dream, that the unease curdles in his stomach into something else.

Just like that, he knows something wrong.

Just like that, he knows where he's going.

Half a dozen purposeful strides and he's at the closed bedroom door; he opens it without knocking.

(Which is different, _not the same_ , lose a point.)

And that's when he sees he's right.

Something was wrong.

Something _is_ wrong.

 _Addison._

..

 _Four Hours Earlier_

..

"Come here often?"

His voice is right next to her ear as she stands there, looking at the board – so close that his breath moves her hair.

She turns around, pretending to be annoyed. "Mark, what are you doing?"

"Practicing," he says, grinning at her. He's wearing street clothes, apparently on his way out. "You're the one who told me my lines are old and tired."

"They are old and tired."

"Well, in case you haven't noticed, last year's intern class is about to move up. Which means new interns who aren't old . . . or tired."

Ugh. She makes a face at his expression; Mark, on the other hand, waggles his eyebrows as if he finds himself very amusing.

"Do you mind?" she asks, gesturing at the board.

"Not at all." He grins at her again, then lets his brow furrow with confusion. "What's so interesting up there?"

She doesn't answer.

"Ah." He folds his arms, moving next to her – he doesn't touch her, but the warm bulk of him is just so – large, and so _there_ , that she can feel the heat of him through the sleeve of his sweater. "Stalking your husband again?"

"Shut up." It's too close to the truth for comfort. And he knows it.

Mark just tips his head back, studying the board himself. "He won't be finished with that procedure – " he nods in the direction of Derek's latest surgical achievement – "for hours. You gonna stand here and wait until he's scrubbed out?"

"Of course not," she says coolly, already annoyed that she's betrayed too much of her own uncertainty. "I was just checking the board, Mark. Or I was until you decided to interfere."

There's a flicker of hurt across his face at the word _interfere_ , just like she knew there would be. For a moment she amuses herself, darkly, picturing Derek hurt by the concept of _interfere._ As if anyone would tell Derek Shepherd he wasn't welcome, with words or without them.

Mark, though?

Mark gets it.

Derek has been her other half since their first year of medical school, Mark has been his best friend since their first year of grade school. She and Mark are more alike than Derek is to either of them, and it always made sense. Why else would Derek choose both of them to share his life?

Why else would the two of them needle each other so successfully about the very same insecurity?

She's the one Derek married.

Lately, though? He doesn't have much time for either one of them.

"I'm sorry I interrupted your . . . study," Mark says, his tone purposefully dismissive. "I was just leaving, anyway."

"Where are you going?" she asks automatically, hating herself a bit as she does.

He hasn't even made it three footfalls away before she broke, too.

She rolls her eyes, inwardly, at her own pathetic performance: _Nice, Addie_.

But Mark doesn't seem particularly bothered. Doesn't have that oh-so-patient look her husband gets when she asks him inconvenient questions.

 _When are you coming home?_

 _Did you forget our plans?_

 _Is everything okay? Are we okay?_

 _Derek . . . ?_

"Home." Mark tilts his head, watching her. "That all right with you?"

She doesn't respond; she's studying the board again. Her blackberry is a dead weight in the pocket of her white coat. He didn't tell her – but then, she didn't remind him to tell her.

Maybe it's on her.

Maybe she's the problem.

"Addison."

She looks up.

"Why are you staying?"

"At work, you mean?"

He blinks, but doesn't respond.

"I had a patient," she says mechanically.

" _Had_ ," Mark repeats.

So he's not going to let this go.

"Yes, _had._ You asked why I was still here."

"I asked why you were staying."

She shakes her head as if the movement will clear it. "Well, your question is moot now because I'm leaving too."

His gaze tracks down to her work clothes; she tugs self-consciously at the collar of her white coat.

"You're leaving like that?"

It takes all her self-control not to stick her tongue out at him.

"Forget it." He grins at her. "I'll wait."

"For – oh." She pauses, half turned, then turns back. "You don't have to wait."

"I know I don't."

That's all he says, but it warms her – that cold lump she's been swallowing for months now. It's soothing.

She turns again to go and when she looks back, he's still there.

She glances briefly once more as she approaches the elevator, heading to her office, and he's still there.

When she returns to the lobby in street clothes, with her briefcase and her bag . . . he's still there.

"You're still here," she says dumbly.

"I'm still here."

"You didn't have to wait."

"But I did." He gestures with his chin toward the outside world. "You hungry?" he asks amiably as they walk toward the wide front doors.

"Not for pizza."

"Good. I was thinking Chinese." He stands back to let her exit first.

"Not Chinese either."

"Pizza, then?"

"Mark." She sighs; there's no reasoning with him. ". . . fine." She pauses, stifling a yawn.

"Tired?"

 _Always._

"I'll walk you home," he says, and he offers her his arm like the gentleman he definitely isn't. They're halfway into the front hall of the brownstone, Mark balancing the pizza box they picked up on the way, when he turns around to grin at her.

"Now what?" she asks, hanging up her coat.

"Nothing." He pauses. "Just – my line wasn't so _old and tired_ , was it?"

"How do you figure that?"

"Because it worked." He sets down the pizza; she lunges to push the runner under the box just in time.

 _It worked._

She should be offended.

She should be a lot of things.

She should _say_ a lot of things.

But she just acknowledges his smirk with a shake of her head and leaves him alone in the living room to hunt down a bottle of wine.

She ends up eating three slices of pizza, the last one out of sheer frustrated boredom. Derek used to tease her that he could gauge her mood from how much pizza she managed in one sitting.

Was that medical school, when he said that?

Internship, maybe.

It's hard to tell. When someone decorates your entire adult life, sorting out exactly which page of your memories contains which particular memory gets difficult.

Mark eats the rest without a second glance; if he's in a mood – if he _has_ moods, if he has anything but a bottomless pit for pizza and nurses – she has no idea.

He's been quiet tonight, sipping Derek's scotch while she worked her way through a bottle of red she's once planned to save. They're sitting on the couch together in a parody of domesticity – it's Derek's house, Derek's couch, Derek's scotch . . . but he isn't here.

Mark props his feet on the coffee table and she winces; at least he's not wearing shoes. "Put on channel seven," he directs her when she starts to switch news stations. "The girl's better looking," he explains when she glances over.

Ugh.

"The _girl?_ She's an anchorwoman."

"Anchorgirl . . . whatever."

She doesn't engage. She doesn't change the channel, either, and when Mark frowns at her she switches the remote to her other hand.

"That's how you're going to play it?"

She's not playing.

She doesn't think she's playing, but when Mark extends a hand for the remote control, she finds herself moving it out of his reach.

There's a slow smile spreading across his face that she's not sure she likes.

"Hand it over," he orders her; his voice is low and teasing.

Like this is funny.

She could just give him the channel changer; it's not like she cares which newscaster's voice fills up the empty brownstone.

"Not until you say it."

Her own voice is teasing, too. At least it sounds that way from the outside. Inside, where she can hear it more clearly, it's tinny and desperate.

"Say what?" Mark pauses.

"Anchor _woman._ "

He shakes his head. "Blackmail."

"It's my television."

"Yeah, but it's my anchorgirl."

"She's not _your_ anything tonight," Addison smirks, pulling the remote control out of his reach again.

"Fighting words, Addison," he warns, pointing a finger at her with mock severity. "Take it back."

 _Make me._

She doesn't say it.

She doesn't have to.

He's looking at her so intently in that moment that she's not sure she could speak at all.

 _I'm still here,_ that's what he said in the hospital.

Time stops for a moment on the antique couch she picked out that Derek never liked, her grandfather's old clock ticking ominous tempo from the bookshelves.

She can't breathe.

She's drunk – not on two measly glasses of wine she could metabolize with one lap around the brownstone, but on the heady way Mark is staring at her.

There are moments, usually in the OR, when she knows that she needs to change course. She just . . . knows.

This is one of them.

She needs to put down the remote control, stop all this foolishness, clear up the glasses and go to bed.

She needs to stop all of this.

She extends the hand with the remote control over her head, never breaking eye contact.

He smirks at her – _this is a game to him, my life is a game to him –_ and then he has her wrist in one big hand. His fingers are so warm on her bare skin, and they're wrestling for the remote, playfully . . . and then not so playfully.

"Mark, wait – "

He's in her space, he's pinned her arm, and he's laughing – it's _brotherly_ , that's what she tells herself. He and Derek are brothers and she's Derek's wife and he's her . . . brother-in-law?

She's heady with the feeling of his focused attention, his breath smells of Derek's scotch this close and he doesn't _have_ to be this close just to grab the remote. His sweater is rough under her free hand and she's pushing him away so he shouldn't be moving closer –

"Stay tuned," the anchorwoman is saying from the still-piping television. "We'll be right back."

..  
..

"Addison!"

He lets the door slam open. His wife is sitting in the center of their sleigh bed in one of his old shirts, bare legs drawn up to her chest like she's trying to disappear. Her long hair is covering her face, but he doesn't need to see it to know something is wrong.

Very wrong.

"I'm sorry," she whimpers. She's mumbling into her hands and it's muffled, but she obviously knows it's him: "Derek, I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?"

She doesn't respond.

He's sitting in front of her now. "Addison, what's going on?"

Nothing. Her shoulders shake; she's crying.

"Addie." He taps the side of one of her legs. "Sit up."

She doesn't.

He hasn't seen her this worked up in a long time – maybe she lost a patient, maybe it's something else, but it's more than just _Derek, you didn't call_ or _Derek, you didn't have to sleep at the hospital_ or _Derek, just talk to me._

Which is . . . good.

Or it should be.

"Addison?" He reaches out, finally, to move some of her long hair away from her face and she flinches hard under his hand.

It seems to wake her up, though, and slowly – very slowly – she lifts her head from where it was pressed into her knees.

Revealing red, swollen eyes, a tear-streaked face . . . and a bruise across her cheekbone he hasn't seen before.

"What happened to you?" Automatically, he tips her face toward the meager light of the wall sconce.

"It's nothing," she says hoarsely. Her voice is thick with tears. "I . . . dropped something," she adds when he continues to stare at her face.

"You dropped something – on your face?"

And it's so absurd he could laugh, except it looks painful, even if – and he probes the area very gently to confirm – nothing seems to be broken.

She actually laughs too – a half laugh, half sob and then she draws a long shuddering breath while he still sits there with two fingers under her chin. Her skin is warm to the touch; she must have been crying for a while.

"You dropped something on your face," he prompts when she doesn't speak. Her long hair is in damp disarray and smells of shampoo. " . . . in the shower?"

She shakes her head.

"Addison."

"You're wearing your coat," she says, her voice still scratchy from crying.

"I'm – yes, I'm wearing my coat," he agrees impatiently. "That's not the point."

"Why didn't you take it off?"

Why didn't he – it's an understandable question.

Things work a certain way here, in this house.

He parks the jeep.

He unlocks the front door.

He pockets the keys.

He hangs his coat in the front closet.

Then, and only then, does he ascend the stairs to the second floor.

" . . . I just didn't," he says, aware she's still waiting for an answer.

She seems to accept it, but she offers no further information about her bizarre injury or about the miserable state of her. She can't have been sitting up here crying about a bruise, not when he's watched her sustain more serious damage without a fraction of the tragedy. Wasn't he there the night she sliced her leg open on a broken wine bottle her brother couldn't manage to dispose of properly? Not to mention that summer she left half the skin of her elbow on the dock at her mother's lake house. Their nieces have left worse bruising on her face thumping their _big Shepherd heads_ , as Nancy likes to call them, into their aunt's chin one overly excited Christmas or another over the years.

"Addison."

She looks up, tears swimming in her eyes. "Mark was here," she says.

He tries to make sense of it. "Mark was here," he repeats.

She nods.

"Mark was here . . . and that's how you dropped a remote control on your face?" He tries to piece it together. "Mark – dropped the remote control on your face?"

She shakes her head.

"He threw it at you," Derek proposes, ridiculous as it sounds. He's never seen Mark hurt a fly, and certainly not a woman, other than a few UTIs among their medical school classmates for which he liked to take revoltingly gleeful credit.

She shakes her head again.

"Fine. I give up." He sits back on the bed, starting to feel impatient.

"Do you?" Addison is looking right at him now, her expression suddenly intense.

"Do I . . . give up?" He sighs. "It's late, Addison. Can we hold off on the riddles? Are you going to tell me what happened to your face?"

"Which question do you want me to answer first?" she asks.

He counts to a mental five, then ten, not in the mood for the _Alice in Wonderland_ Red Queen routine that used to amuse him.

"Never mind," he says tightly, and pushes to his feet.

"Where are you going?"

He turns around halfway to the door. Addison's moved, her legs akimbo now, like she's trying to get off the bed. She looks embarrassed.

"I was going to get you some ice," he says slowly, "for your face."

"I don't need ice."

"Then what do you need?" he asks, with more impatience than he can hide. "Can you just give me a straight answer for once?"

Her mouth opens, and then closes again.

Of course.

"I need you," she says quietly. "I need you to listen to me, Derek."

"What do you think I've been trying to do?" he asks, irritated.

"I don't know! Not that."

"Addison." He rubs an impatient hand through his hair. She's going to drive him crazy, bruised face or not. "Enough playing games. It's late. I'm going to get you some ice, and – "

"Mark kissed me."

He blinks, trying to make sense of the words.

Individually, he knows each one:

 _Mark._

 _Kissed._

 _Me._

But _me_ as the object of _kissed_ when the subject is _Mark_ makes no sense. Not when _me_ is his wife, and he, Derek, is the only subject of her verbal kisses.

"Or I kissed him."

His brain flickers again, trying to diagram a new sentence.

But this one doesn't make sense either.

"Before I dropped the remote control, I – Derek, I need to talk to you, I'm so sorry, I – "

He doesn't hear the rest. He shuts the bedroom door hard behind him, suddenly so overly warm he can't believe he's still wearing his coat. He shrugs out of it like a turtle's shell and leaves it on the floor of the hallway like he never would, never should, knowing it will bother her, and stalks down the stairs.

"Derek!"

..

She's been frozen in place on the bed for so long that standing feels foreign – she staggers to her feet anyway, pulling open the door he slammed and tearing after him, tripping a little on something she realizes is his cashmere coat crumpled on the floor.

"Derek!"

He's faster down the stairs, she's calling him, but he's leaving.

 _You're still here?_

 _I'm still here._

"Derek, please!"

He spins around at the bottom of the staircase. "What?" His voice is clipped and icy; it's barely a question.

She shrinks at the tone, at the look of cold fury on his face. Three steps up, looking clear over his head, she still feels tiny.

"I'm sorry," she says, starting to cry again; he looks disgusted, whether by her tears or her indiscretion she's not certain. "I'm so sorry."

He just turns and walks away.

She sinks down on the staircase, threading both hands through the spindles and resting her head against the banister.

Foolish fear washes over her – _he's leaving he's never coming back –_ even as she knows he's just around the corner, pouring a drink. She can hear the clink of the glass, the twist of metal when he opens the bottle. Every single sound is familiar.

 _Derek, I'm sorry._

All she can do is look at him miserably when he rounds the corner again, holding a scotch in one hand.

"Is that what you meant when you said you were getting ice?"

Her own half-hearted attempt at humor just embarrasses her, her voice still thick with tears.

He ignores her, just leaning against the closed front door, sipping his drink.

"Derek."

He says nothing.

" _Derek._ " He glances up with the barest recognition. "Are you going to listen to me?" she asks shakily.

"Do I have a choice?"

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

"Sorry you're making me listen to you, or sorry you did it?"

She blinks, hurt even if it's selfish of her. "Making you listen to me," she repeats slowly. "That's how you see it, right?"

"No." He shakes his head. "You're not going to blame me for – whatever this is."

She nods, drawing a shaky breath. He's right. Of course he's right.

"Derek – how many nights this week have you come home?" she asks.

"Too many," he says.

The disgust in his voice, in his face, pierce straight through her heart.

"You don't mean that," she says shakily.

"After what you just – " he stops talking, shaking his head and half turning away. "I don't have to listen to this."

"You do. _Derek_ ," she pleads when he turns, suddenly terrified he's going to reach for the doorknob. "Derek, please – "

She's down the stairs faster than she thought she could move, covering the floor with pounding bare feet.

He turns, maybe at the sound of it and she hugs him before she can stop herself, before he can stop her.

He doesn't, though.

He doesn't hug her back, either – just stands there while she clings desperately, and she can feel him holding away the hand with the drink . . . but he doesn't push her away and that's something.

That has to be something.

"I love you," she whispers against his face. They're practically cheek to cheek. They're almost dancing.

"No." He unlinks one of her arms and steps back. "Don't pull that."

"I'm not."

He sips his drink and doesn't respond.

"It's true, Derek, I don't have to . . . pull anything. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, and I love you."

She's exhausted.

The words exhausted her.

He doesn't say anything.

"Derek – "

"Fine," he says shortly.

"Fine?" she repeats, a little confused.

"It's late." He's avoiding her gaze. "Let's go to bed. We can – discuss this in the morning."

She stares. "We won't," she challenges, shakily.

"Addison." He softens his voice. "I'm tired. You're tired. Let's just go to bed and forget – "

"No!"

She shouts it before she can stop herself.

His eyes widen. "Excuse me?"

"No," she repeats, more quietly this time. "I'm sorry, Derek, I'm so sorry I did that, tonight, but we can't go to bed."

"Why is that?"

"Because we have to do something." She's so exhausted now that just pushing the words out feels like a physical impossibility.

There's no choice, though.

There are no more chances.

"We have to do something, Derek. We have to do something about this."

"This," he repeats, "what is . . . _this?_ "

He seems genuinely uncertain.

"Our marriage." She stands up a little straighter. Her eyes are burning from all the tears she's shed tonight; her whole body aches from her stinging bruised cheekbone to her shaky legs. "We have to do something about our marriage."

He opens his mouth as if he's going to speak, closes it again without a word, and drains his glass of scotch.

"Derek – "

"I'm getting another drink," he says, and she just stands there while he disappears around the corner again.

" . . . can I have a sip?" she asks meekly when he returns.

He passes her the tumbler without question – _we're still married, then_ – and she lets the scotch warm her throat. She's not thirsty and she doesn't particularly like the taste, but she needed that mouthful of sense memory to be Derek again, not Mark. She needs him to be hers again.

"It didn't mean anything," she says when he hands him back his drink. "I know that's what everyone says, I know that's what always gets said, but it's true."

He doesn't respond.

"He was just – here. It was just a kiss, barely even a kiss," she amends.

He's still silent.

She stares at the hard-backed Victorian couch her husband has never liked, regretful memories swimming in front of her eyes.

Mark was inches away, the hard warmth of his body making her dizzy, and when their lips met – four lips, two people, one marriage; they were equally to blame – she was so startled she dropped the remote she'd been holding out of his reach.

The sting in her cheekbone startled them both back to reality before their lips had touched for more than a handful of seconds. Mark looked surprised, embarrassed, it was easy to usher him out with apologies and _sure I'll put ice on it_ and _don't be sorry, nothing happened_ and close the door and move on with her life.

She didn't have to tell Derek.

She had to tell Derek.

"I'm sorry," she says again.

He doesn't respond.

"I know how it sounds, but I – I've missed you, Derek. I missed you tonight."

"You missed me so much you kissed my best friend?"

"Honestly?" She raises an eyebrow. "Yes."

He shakes his head. "Logical, Addison. Very logical."

"It _is_ logical, Derek. You weren't here. You're never home – "

"Here we go again." He raises his eyes heavenward. "As if you're always home. I'm working and you're – knitting, is that how it goes?"

"I'm working too," she admits, "I'm working a lot, just like you, Derek, except I _want_ to come home to you!"

Her words hang in the air.

"I came home," he says stiffly after long moments of silence. "I came home, and my wife told me she kissed another man."

"Barely kissed."

"Barely kissed _my best friend_ ," Derek amends. "And then – dropped a remote control on her face."

"At least . . . you know it's true?" she asks weakly, trying to sound like she's not petrified. "Why would anyone make up a story that ridiculous?"

He looks distinctly unimpressed.

Guilt curdles her stomach; he can barely look at her, apparently.

"You can kiss someone too, if you want," she blurts.

"Who am I supposed to kiss?" he asks grumpily.

" . . . Mark?" she can't help suggesting.

"Very funny." He shakes his head. "I'm glad you're amused."

"I'm not amused." She grips his arm when he starts to turn away. "Derek, I'm not amused. I'm – I'm _terrified_."

He doesn't respond.

"We haven't spent time together. We haven't spent a full day together in – god, I don't know. I have no idea." She stares at him. "Do you know the last time you spent the day with your wife?"

He doesn't answer.

"A long time. It was a long time ago."

"Addison."

"A very long time ago."

He sighs.

"Do you know what happens to couples who – " She stops talking, drawing a deep breath before she starts ticking examples off on her fingers. "The Garrisons divorced five years after they finished residency," she reminds him. "The Wylers divorced last year. The Perrettis – "

"All right," he cuts her off, sounding tired.

"We've been married for eleven years," she says quietly.

"I know that."

"I need you to listen to me. I need you to hear me."

"Addison, would you just – "

"Things aren't good, Derek. _We're_ not good."

"So you decided to kiss my best friend? That's your solution?"

"I didn't decide anything!" she yells before she can stop herself. "It just _happened_ because I was lonely, Derek, and I was sick of being alone, and I missed you, and it could have been so much worse!"

"So go sleep with him," he says coldly. "See if that fixes things."

She turns away and walks up the stairs on autopilot, her ears ringing. She's going to cry, and she's going to do it in their bedroom, and she keeps walking until the edge of the bed hits her legs and then she lets herself fall forward and cry into the flannel sheets Derek's never liked.

..

She doesn't know how much time has passed – two minutes, two hours? – when the door creaks open, the mattress sags a little under her prone body, and she feels the warmth of his hand in the middle of her back. It's his left; she can sense the pressure of his wedding band against the thin material of her shirt.

They sit like that for long moments; after a while, she turns her head and rests it on her folded hands.

Derek's eyes are soft, looking at her.

"It's okay," she tells him, her voice thick with tears again. "Look, you don't have to – "

"We're not the Garrisons," he says.

She furrows her brow.

"We're not the Wylers, and we're not the Perrettis." Derek reaches out to move some of her hair away from her face, strands of it are sticking to her cheeks. "We're Derek and Addison," he reminds her.

"But they used to be – "

" – but they're not us," he says firmly.

"Who says we're different?"

"I do. Addie," he adds when she doesn't respond, waiting for her to look at him again. "Those couples . . . they quit. We don't quit. Remember?"

"They didn't quit either . . . until they did."

"Addison." He sighs. "What do you want from me?"

He doesn't sound angry.

Or even impatient.

He sounds – like he actually wants to know.

So she tells him.

"I want you not to give up," she says, starting to sit up. "Don't give up on me."

"I haven't." He helps her sit the rest of the way up. "I don't."

"On us," she adds. "Don't give up on us."

"I already said I don't."

"You said it about me. I mean about _us._ "

"Is there a difference?" he asks.

Their fingers are intertwined on the flannel sheets.

" . . . I don't know," she admits.

He nods, seeming to give it consideration.

"Do you think that's bad?" she asks, hearing the uncertainty in her voice.

"I don't know," he admits.

They face each other across their shared bed, hands joined, eyes meeting in the middle, and then Derek is breaking eye contact to reach in his pocket for his blackberry.

"What are you doing?" she asks uncertainly.

"Emailing the travel agent."

It hurts her bruised cheekbone to smile, but she does it anyway.

..

"Next time we argue . . . we could just come straight back to the place with the bed."

"We could do that." His voice is slow and lazy, like her thoughts.

Like the circles he's tracing on her bare back with his fingertips.

Long moments pass in silence, just the gentle stirring of the overhead fan and the peaceful sounds of their breaths.

"Derek . . . thank you," she says quietly, finally, her voice a little muffled in the damp skin of his shoulder, turning to look at his face. It's striped with the morning sun slipping between the gauzy layers of white curtains at the oversized windows.

"For what?" He raises an eyebrow when she doesn't respond. "Not for sex," he warns her. "You know I don't like it when you thank me for sex."

"It's polite," she protests.

"It's not polite, it's – " He stops talking, seemingly at a loss for words.

"It's a little polite."

He shakes his head, not contradicting her.

"Never mind," he says. He looks like he's trying not to smile. "Addie – what did you want to thank me for?"

" . . . for listening," she says.

They're still in bed when the sun sinks below the horizon.

* * *

 _Thank you for reading, and happy 14th Anniversary of the most epic entrance I've ever seen. I hope you enjoyed, and I hope you'll review and share your thoughts because I love hearing them. What other Addek prompts are on your mind lately? (Bearing in mind I will be updating QPQ on Sunday and I have a Climbing Way update in the works too.) Until the next flip - (Truman Show voice) - good Addek, good stanning, and good night!_


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